


a harmony in green and ultraviolet

by skywideopen



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Early Character Death, F/F, Family, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 13:18:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4878364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skywideopen/pseuds/skywideopen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They arrive at the apartment and they're too late.</p><p>[AU from the end of 4x19 onwards, in which Gold contacts Zelena before Emma, Regina and Lily arrive. Or, in which Regina loses a soulmate but gains an entire family.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in red

**Author's Note:**

> A few things.
> 
> 1\. So it turns out that the Author had misplaced/hidden an almost-empty bottle of enchanted ink somewhere on his person, and with the last of this most precious of substances managed to excise Hook from reality entirely. Or, alternatively, Gold completed what he'd almost done in 4x12. Or maybe Emma is infinitely more concerned about her actual family's welfare than anything else. Whatever explanation you go with, Hook's not in this story.
> 
> 2\. Robin is in this story, but only for about 500 words in person, for reasons that will soon become obvious. After that he's referenced periodically. In all honesty, he's here more in the abstract than as an actual human being.
> 
> 3\. The canon S4 Author/Gold storyline will be very much taking the back seat here, and eventually it will be quietly and neatly rolled up in the background and stowed away. It's simply not important to this story, and I think you can tell how much I (don't) care about rigidly sticking to canon. This story is about Regina and her immediate family (Emma, Zelena, and her children—yes, plural), so anything not directly related will likely be handwaved away. Just assume Maleficent and Lily have it covered—they're fucking dragons, after all.
> 
> 4\. I don't actually know how many chapters this will be yet, seven is just an educated guess.
> 
> 5\. Finally, this is, at heart, an experiment, because ho-lee-shit this is a long, long way removed from my usual writing style and format (but that's half the fun). Treat it as such.

**one.**

 

They arrive at the apartment and they're too late.

They must be, because Maleficent's call had been _three hours_ ago and surely, surely Gold has contacted Zelena by now, and they _must_ be late. Regina had been slowly boiling all afternoon and evening, quietly drowning in impotent dread through traffic jams and roadworks and map difficulties—

(“Hey,” Emma had said, glancing sidelong and catching her increasingly wild eyes, “We'll get there, alright?” and Regina's heart had slowed from its dangerous rate just for a moment.)

—but now they're _here_ , and Regina is hammering on the door, calling out Robin's name over and over again until the door opens.

“Regina?” Robin looks bewildered and delighted and _alive, he's alive,_ and Regina can't help but throw his arms around him. “What are you doing here?”

He has no idea, she realises, and she's thankful that _just for once_ she's got one over fate. She promises to explain later, _later_ when they have time for resurrected sisters and road trips and Operation Mongoose—“Where's Marian?”

“Right here.”

They both turn in unison, blood icing in Regina's veins at Marian's voice—no. Not Marian.

“Zelena,” Robin gasps. “What on earth—”

But Regina doesn't hear him, or anything else. She just _sees_.

Sees the smile, curling in gleeful triumph. The phone in her left, still half-pressed to Zelena's ear. The pitch-black barrel of the gun, secure in her right.

“Sorry, sis. But you were too late.”

The right hand rises, and Regina screams.

 

* * *

 

She screams, and screams, and screams.

She screams as the gun goes off not once but _twice_. Screams as Robin crumples, _crumples,_ his body falling to the ground with a dull thud. Screams as she hurls herself at her _sister,_ her bare hands wrapped vice-like around Zelena's neck. Screams because Zelena is still smiling, _gloating_ in her victory even as the very life is squeezed out of her—

“Regina!” She feels arms wind around her body, _wrenching_ her away from the brink of revenge, and she whirls around, ready to turn the brunt of her rage on the person who had the gall to _interfere_ like so until she catches a glimpse of blonde hair—“Regina, stop!”

But she doesn't, because she already sees _blood_.

( _Blood on her face, blood on her hands, blood everywhere—_ )

She struggles, tries to get free. “ _Emma—_ ”

But Emma in this world is stronger than her, and she's held in place, her gaze locked forcibly against fierce green. “Robin—you have to help Robin!”

And the rage floods away, replaced by a freezing, asphyxiating dread. She stumbles, falls to his side, her hands shaking uncontrollably as she places them on his heaving chest.

He says her name, but his eyes darken and all she can hear is _too late, too late, too late._

 

* * *

 

At some point that night, people come and take Robin away.

(They take Zelena too, but there had only been one white bag.)

At another point, Emma and Lily leave the room.

(Someone covers her with a blanket first.)

Later, someone with long, blonde hair comes and helps wash away the blood on her hands, her chest, her face.

(She still sees it anyway.)

 

* * *

 

“Regina—I'm so sorry, but—”

“Don't be. I already know.”

“Do you want to go—”

“No.”

“I'm—If I hadn't—if I hadn't gotten so distracted with Lily—”

“You didn't. I did.”

“You can't blame yourself for this. Not—not for love.”

( _A mother's loving smile, a son with his heart ripped out, a boy in a stable—_ )

She never answers.

 

* * *

 

_Too late, too late, too late—_

 

* * *

 

“Regina,” someone murmurs from right above her, warm breath against her cheek. “Regina, wake up.”

She opens her eyes, raises her head to blinding white light and strange, alien whirrs. “What—where am I?”

“Hospital.” Which explains why she's in a bed—though not in a ward, just an ordinary cot. Emma is in a chair next to her, her face still mere inches from her own. “You kind of went into shock for a bit. Then you started crying in your sleep.”

 _Shock?_ That doesn't make sense, she's supposed to be—“Robin. Where is—”

“Regina.” Emma's voice is cautious but her eyes have widened with obvious alarm. “Do you—do you not remember?”

She frowns at her, and almost snaps something scathing because she doesn't have _time_ for this—

( _The smile. The gun. The blood._ )

—but then she does, and she sinks back onto the bed. “Oh—oh. Yes.”

Emma's face twists, and for the first time Regina notices the still-wet tear streaks surrounding her bloodshot eyes. “Regina, I'm so sorry—”

She encloses her fingers gently around Emma's. “I know.” She doesn't, actually, but she's pretty sure that that's something Emma Swan, whose sympathy had always outweighed her sense, would say. “It wasn't your fault. It was—”

_My sister's—_

_Rumplestiltskin's—_

_My own—_

Her throat tightens, and the words fail there. Emma gives one sharp, fierce squeeze of her hand. “Are you hungry? Do you want anything to drink?”

She sees the change in subject for what it is, but doesn't object. She honestly doesn't have the energy. “Just water.”

“Nothing to eat?”

“No. The water, Miss Swan.”

 

* * *

 

Emma makes coffee instead.

“Stubborn fool,” Regina mutters as she sips it, but Emma smiles anyway.

 

* * *

 

She's discharged from the hospital at eight in the morning. Rather, she discharges herself, with steel in her gaze and her chin raised. Emma had just watched, her brow furrowed and her eyes clouded.

“You don't have to be strong all the time, Regina,” she says. “Not right now.” Regina ignores her.

She takes one step beyond the foyer when a car pulls up in front of them and the entire Charming clan pours out.

“Regina,” Snow sighs as she steps in front of her, the woman's eyes wide and bright with intolerable pity, “Emma told us what happened. I am so very, very sorry.” At once, Regina is drawn into a full-body hug, which she stiffly accepts but doesn't reciprocate. “Zelena—”

“Is in custody,” she says, her voice rigidly emotionless. And that's all she says, because even the very _thought_ makes something black, wild and choking rise up her throat and—she won't. She _won't_. “Where's Henry—?”

But she doesn't even get to complete the sentence before she's all but knocked over by another crushing hug and enveloped totally by her son, _her son._ “I'm here, Mom. I'm here.”

She winds her arms around him, this one irreducible sliver of happiness she has left, and hangs on.

 

* * *

 

A police interview.

Of all the things that she’ll be subjected to today, her first port of call is a _police interview_. And it doesn’t matter that the officers’ voices are gentle and sympathetic, it doesn’t matter that it’s nothing more than a statement and that she isn’t alone to make it, that Snow is supportive rather than accusing for once, that Emma is _behind_ and _aside_ rather than in front—

( _We know who you are, and who you’ll always be!_ )

“Mom.” A shivering, cautious touch, a desperately familiar arm folding against hers. “Mom, I’m here.”

Henry. Henry who had believed. Who _understands_.

Emma meets her eye, and she looks away.

The officer watches. “Are you ready, Madam Mayor?”

 _Clear eyes, raised chin._ “I am.”

 

* * *

 

It’s easier than she’d expected, but she hadn’t expected it to be that hard, just… _galling_. It’s certainly easier than Emma or Snow seemed to have been expecting, based on their silent tears and anguished glances as she describes in exacting, precise detail, the circumstances of her soulmate’s murder.

( _Two seconds between gunshots, the spray of the blood, the manic glee of the smile_ —)

“Mrs Mills.” The officer puts his pen down. Snow is sobbing openly, Emma is hyperventilating, Henry is gripping her arm like she’ll dissolve into the air if he doesn’t. “If you don’t feel you can continue—”

Her eyes flash. “I can. I will.” She does.

 

* * *

 

The interview ends, the officers leave.

“Hey. You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Regina—”

She closes her eyes. “Emma—please. Let me—let me have this.”

And Emma, kind, _good_ Emma, does.

 

* * *

 

Later, over Henry's favourite pizza and the cacophony of New York silence: “I’m sorry.”

At this point, Regina almost has to roll her eyes. “Miss Swan, once again—”

“Not for that.” Emma holds her gaze, soft but impenetrable. “For Archie.”

She opens her mouth, but doesn’t speak. She’d buried that hatchet, but she knows exactly where to find it and today—today had been a _reminder_.

“That was a long time ago.”

“Not that long.”

And it’s true, she knows, the distance between mortal enemies and friends far shorter in reality than it appears. “Why?”

Emma shrugs, a strangely nonchalant gesture that fits her perfectly. “I don’t think I ever apologised for it.”

Regina reaches across, rubs her fingers over the back of Emma’s palm. “No, I don’t think you did.”

 

* * *

 

There is one more person they need to talk to, one arrangement that needs to be made immediately.

“You don't have to do this, Regina,” Snow says. Emma looks away. “This is—”

“No. I do.”

It's the very least she can do.

 

* * *

 

He's waiting for them at the police station.

“Regina!” The little boy's eyes light up, latching onto a familiar face amongst dull fluorescent lights and blank cream walls. “Hi.”

She bends down before him, eye to eye. “Hello, Roland. How are you?”

“I'm in a police station.” He's visibly confused and nervous, but his eyes are wide and curious and—and Regina _has_ to do this. “I want Papa. Where's Papa?”

She _has_ to do this. She takes Roland's hands in her own. “Robin has—”

_Died—_

_Been murdered—_

“—gone away.”

He frowns, his four-year-old brow creasing. “Will he come back?”

_Yes._

_No._

Her hands are starting to shake and tears are blurring her vision. “He's—he's a long way away, dear. And—and it might take a long time for him to come home. In the meantime, you'll stay with me.”

“But where did he go?”

It's a simple question, deserving of a simple answer, of a simple _lie_. “I'm—I'm not sure. Roland, I'm—”

“When will he come back? When will Papa come back?”

“Roland—”

“Regina,” someone whispers. There's arms under her shoulders, and Roland is receding away.

“I want Papa,” Roland cries, but reaches out for Regina anyway, and she—she _has to do this._

“Regina.” Emma's voice is right against her ear, and she can feel the harsh breaths in her hair, can feel Emma trembling. “Regina, stop.”

She struggles against Emma's grip unsuccessfully, even though Emma is barely holding on. “Emma **—** ”

“Please, Regina,” Emma whispers, rough and unsteady. “Let someone else do this.”

Someone else already has, someone else already is, but Regina is disintegrating, piece by piece by piece. “I have to—”

“I get it. But you don't have to do _this_.”

And she's gone, shaking so violently she could well shatter.

“I know,” Emma murmurs, swaying gently as Regina sinks lower and lower into the embrace. “I know. I know.”

 

* * *

 

**two.**

 

At the hotel, Roland is in Emma's room for the night, whilst Regina shares one with Henry.

Or, rather, he sleeps in the room. She just sits there watching the dazzling array of city lights below, and doesn't see them at all.

 

* * *

 

_The blood, the gun, the smile..._

 

* * *

 

Planning for the funeral starts the very next day.

She organises the whole thing: she selects the coffin; sets down the entire program; creates the seating plan; chooses the burial site. The only point of contention from anyone is the last—and by _anyone_ , she means Snow.

“We should take him back to Storybrooke,” she says, her voice feather-light as if it makes any difference. And Regina _burns_ , because Robin had been a _thief_ , not a loyal subject content to be ruled and coddled by royalty _—_

“Mary Margaret, he lived here _longer_ than he did in Storybrooke,” Emma points out, her jaw set hard and the muscles in her shoulders visibly tensed. “Besides, that should be Regina's decision.”

Regina knows that there are other subplots at work here, that there are other conflicts raging which don't involve her, but she places a hand over Emma's arm anyway.

 

* * *

 

“I know what she's doing,” Emma tells her later, when they've retreated back to the hotel. “She wants me to go back to Storybrooke so shecan sit me down and sort shit out.”

“You should,” she replies, but her voice has all the life of a quarry stone, “It's not healthy to hold a grudge. And besides, you still have to deal with Gold and the Author.”

“Yeah,” Emma replies, and her voice is about as empty as Regina feels.

 

* * *

 

The conversation does, however, give her an idea. Henry takes to it immediately. Emma does not.

“You said that Operation Mongoose—”

“Regina,” Emma says softly, “you know that can't work.”

Her eyes flash. “Why? Are you afraid that I'll—”

“No. But you know the rules.” Death is death, the one barrier magic—even of the reality-altering literature kind—cannot bridge. “And there's no way Gold will let you.”

“If you think I _care_ about—”

“You might not, but I do. And so would Robin.”

She trembles, struggling to keep the uncontrolled wildfires of emotion contained inside. “Don't you _dare_ —”

“I dare,” Emma says, then emphasises the point by stepping forward and holding her, _holding her_. “If I could do it, I would, Regina. I promise you, I would.”

And she would, and Regina knows it—but as she sobs relentlessly into the leather-covered shoulder, she knows it's not enough, _it's not enough._

 

* * *

 

In the end, they choose a small church just outside the city for the funeral. It's nowhere near adequate, but the nearby trees are tall and straight, and the air crisp with birdsong, and it's frankly the best they can do. Even Mary Margaret seems impressed with the choice.

It's a simple service—Robin would have had no time for ornate pomp and ceremony, Regina is sure of that—attended by all of twenty people, most of them Merry Men bussed down from Maine for the day. The church is old, wooden and beautiful, the pastor is generous and welcoming and the elegant coffin she'd picked looks just right. She enters flanked by Henry and Roland, dressed entirely in black, and everything has gone exactly to plan.

But none of that matters once the funeral actually starts.

 

* * *

 

She learns a lot about her soulmate that day.

She learns, for example, that the first thing he had stolen had been a necklace belonging to a rich local lord. Apparently a friend had wanted it.

She learns that he had met Marian—whose service this is as much as it is Robin's—at the point of an arrow.

“Imagine, if you please, meeting your true love like that,” Littlejohn continues, to mournful laughter from all save one.

She learns that he had once owned a tavern. She learns that he had once broken into Maleficent's castle. She learns that he had known Henry's father.

She learns a great deal—and when her time comes, she learns that she has no right to speak about him at all.

 

* * *

 

“Regina?” Roland asks in that clear, pure four-year-old voice of his. “Where are you going?”

She doesn't know.

 

* * *

 

( _Beloved soulmate_ , the gravestone says. She'd thought it'd be fitting. Now she learns that the cruelest jokes of all are her own.)

 

* * *

 

Emma and Henry are eventually the ones to track her down. She's surprised it's taken them so long, as she hadn't exactly fled far—merely far enough to be out of sight of the people who had far more of a right to her _soulmate_ than she.

She wonders if they'd been deliberately slow.

“My parents are taking everyone back to Storybrooke tomorrow morning,” Emma says, as they're driving back to the hotel, Henry and Roland asleep in the back seat.

“I—I see.” She has to be in New York for the next few weeks, she knows—for one thing, there's the trial.

“I'm not going with them.”

( _It's got style. I'm in._ )

Regina's head snaps around to stare at her in wide-eyed astonishment. “You… you aren't?”

A small, small smile. “You didn't actually think Henry and I would go back without you, did you?”

 

* * *

 

It's about the trial, apparently—which makes sense, as Emma knows far more about how these matters work than she does, and had actually seen all the evidence. Plus, she still needed some time to _deal with stuff_ with respect to her parents.

But that evening, when the three of them are watching some idiotic, banal TV show, she wonders whether there's more to this particular story.

If only she had Emma's superpower.

 

* * *

 

The first hearing is the very next day.

Regina had thought, strangely, that she would enjoy it—or, at least, appreciate the sight of Zelena handcuffed, trapped, awaiting her richly deserved fate. Not that today would be anything of the sort, of course, as this isn't the actual trial. It isn't even the arraignment.

If she just had magic—

“Hey.” Emma covers a gloved hand with her own, and Regina unclenches the unconsciously tightened fist. “You alright?”

“I will be once _my sister_ is rotting in jail.”

“She will. We were both there, and the case is watertight.” Once again, Regina's reminded that this is Emma's world, and Emma's conception of justice. “She's got zero chance of getting off.”

“You say that now,” Regina says below her breath, but she knows Emma's right. Divorced permanently of any and all magic, Zelena is without friends, without resources, and without hope.

Part of her—no small part, either—feels a vindictive, dark pleasure at the thought. The rest of her knows better: Zelena had gotten everything she'd wanted, and all she'll have to do in return is trade one prison for another. If this is vengeance, it's a singularly empty kind.

Though, really, it always is. Regina can attest to that more than anyone.

When Zelena is brought in, she's dressed in an orange prison jumpsuit with her hands handcuffed in front of her. She looks small, her hair frazzled and her complexion pale; there's an odd impassiveness, an aloofness on her face, a strange hollowness in her eyes. For a moment, Regina wonders why that expression, that _look_ seems so familiar—but then she remembers herself, and her stomach clenches ever so slightly.

“All rise,” the judge announces, and it begins.

 

* * *

 

It's uneventful.

As she had expected, _nothing_ is decided today save for sheer banalities. Rights are read. Lawyers are declared. Paperwork is filed. Regina is honestly wondering if anything of even vague interest is going to _happen_ today.

“We'll also need to request additional medical support, your honour,” a black-suited lawyer is saying, and at this point Regina is only just paying attention. “As you're aware, the defendant is pregnant...”

Regina's blood ices over in an instant.

“Regina,” Emma whispers beside her, latching tightly on to her wrist, but she doesn't feel it, doesn't hear her or anyone else. The judge and the lawyer are going back and forth as if nothing had happened, as if the world hadn't just stopped on its axis, but Regina pays them no regard.

She wants to look anywhere else, wants to _be_ anywhere else, but she can't help but let her eyes drift over to her sister, the still subtle but noticeable swell of her belly and—oh, how could she have been so _stupid?_ How had she missed _this?_

For the first time Zelena catches her eye—and, once again, the _smile._

She's never wished for magic more.

 

* * *

 

The trip back to the hotel is very, very quiet.

They don't even make eye contact most of the time, but regardless it smoulders between them, a coiled presence in the air bouncing back and forth between locked jaws and whitened knuckles.

Emma glances over, and opens her mouth—

“Don't, Miss Swan,” she says, low and laced with something unnamed, something _dangerous_ , and Emma doesn't.

When they arrive, Regina wraps her arms around her boys—her _children_ —and doesn't let go.

 

* * *

 

Later, after the boys have gone to bed, Emma joins her by the window and hands her a coffee.

“I would have let you, you know.”

Regina frowns at her. “What are you talking about?”

“Back when—” She swallows, and that's all the information Regina needs. “You know. After. When you were—”

“About to choke her to death?” Regina has never been one for euphemism in matters like these.

“Yeah. I was gonna let you.” Emma's voice is soft, but there are stress lines around her eyes and her knuckles are white around the mug.

“How noble of you.”

“I think we both know that I'm no angel.”

“And yet you still stopped me, as I recall.” She isn't angry about it, not in the slightest—but she is wary.

“Yeah. Robin needed your help, and that's always more important.” Mercifully or otherwise, Emma doesn't mention how useful that help had been. “And besides, I don't think you'd have forgiven me if I let you.”

“Forgiven? For what?”

“For letting you go back to where you once were, after you stopped _me_.” Emma bites her lip, unsure as ever. “You've worked so hard for your happiness—”

“And then she _took_ _it from me_.” One gunshot, two seconds' pause, another, and it had been wiped clean away.

“Not all of it. You still have Henry—”

“It's not enough.” It _can't_ be enough, because Henry isn't her happy ending. Henry is her _life_ , the totality of her reason to be. She would give up any and all pretensions to happiness in an instant for him. Simple, easy, uncomplicated happiness will never be what he gives her, will never be what she _wants_ from him.

“You said I deserve—”

“You deserve more than revenge. You're worth more than that.” And Regina recognises her own logic being used against her, knows that Emma is holding Regina to the same standard as herself like she's some sort of _hero—_

She laughs, twisted and mirthless and _painful_. “I want her to pay for what she did,” she snarls, feeling darkness surge through her, flame and ice, toxic and intoxicating all at once. “I want her to _burn—_ ”

“She will, Regina,” Emma says, low and fierce _._ “She will. But not by you.”

Emma's eyes are bright, so bright, and Regina understands.

 

* * *

 

( _Justice_ , Emma calls it. To Regina's ears, it sounds a lot like _vengeance_ anyway.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Laura for reading through this, by the way. She's a star.


	2. in yellow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, this chapter got away from me a little. Oh, and I sort of ignore 4x20 characterisation in this.
> 
> Another thing. Some of you may be nastily surprised by a certain omission with respect to the charges. I will say this much now to dampen any concerns: I haven't forgotten, and I'll explain at the end of the chapter.

**three.**

 

The next morning, a formality.

A member of Emma's intricate web of contacts has greased the wheels, and Regina's file from over a decade ago is apparently still in the system somewhere, so what would usually take a few weeks has been compressed into a few days.

She signs the forms efficiently and silently, Roland fidgeting beside her as bored four-year-olds are wont to do.

“Congratulations, Mrs Mills,” the grey-suited official says once she's done, with a cool and professional smile. “A second child—you must feel very happy.”

_Happy?_

No. This isn't happiness. This is _duty_.

 

* * *

 

That afternoon, Regina and Emma are sitting on a park bench by the Hudson, watching the two boys feed torn-up pieces of bread to the eager flock of birds that Henry had attracted to the riverside.

“She isn't going to make it easy, you know,” Regina says. Her posture is straight, her gloved hands settled neatly one over the other, whilst beside her Emma is lounging back and smiling at Henry and Roland's antics. They're the very image of a happy little family, spending a warm, clear spring afternoon beneath the New York sun.

“Who won't?”

“Zelena.” The name rolls awkwardly off her tongue, and her eyes have darkened. “She'll do anything in her power to make this as long and difficult for us as possible.” _For me_ , she doesn't say.

“It won't work, not here.” And Emma's voice is tempered steel, and Regina wonders how she ever believed that she could best this woman.

(Maybe she never really did.)

“Of course not. But she will nonetheless.”

“Why? She has to know she's screwed.”

“She does.” Zelena isn't stupid; no offspring of her mother's could ever be _stupid_. No, this must be about twisting that little knife further and further and watching her _bleed_. And also—“It's not in my family's nature to surrender, even in hopeless situations.”

( _A pole, a blindfold, a twang of bows—_ )

“Regina? Regina, what's wrong?”

She blinks, and notices that Emma has suddenly moved far closer to her than she'd been mere seconds before, her blue-green eyes glinting with conspicuous concern.

“It's fine,” she says, but her breathlessness betrays her. “It's nothing.”

A hand on her arm. “Regina, seriously. You just blanked out completely on me there.” Emma bites her lip, hesitant. “Do you—do you want to talk about it?”

 _No._ She doesn't. She _shouldn't_.

Emma's expression is still open, imploring, her touch is still gentle in a way that Regina is so very unfamiliar with. She breathes in, breathes out. “Did you know your parents almost had me executed once?”

The hand on her arm tightens, the face pales. “I—I didn't—”

“You can't tell me you're shocked. It's most certainly in Henry's book.”

“I—I tried not to read that stuff too much.” _Of course she wouldn't_. Emma Swan is present tense personified, infinitely more concerned about _is_ than _was_. “And they never mentioned it.”

“Hardly surprising. I suspect they rather regretted their decision.”

“To have you _executed_?”

“To have me spared at the last second—quite literally,” she adds. “Your mother's work. She wanted to give me a chance to show remorse.”

“And did you?”

( _That woman lost much. And now she's gone._ )

Regina goes still, tense, locks her lower jaw. “As I said,” she says very, very quietly, “it's not in my family's nature to surrender.”

But Emma's hold tightens, and she leans a little into Regina's side so their shoulders brush lightly, ever so lightly.

“No,” Emma agrees, her eyes turning outwards towards the city, the river, the teenage boy smiling as he tears up pieces of bread and passes them to Roland for him to throw. One falls right in between three brown-grey ducks, and he laughs as they squawk and squabble over the prize. “It isn't.”

 

* * *

 

The next day, Maleficent drops by with two suitcases full of their clothes.

Reginacrosses her arms, arches an eyebrow.

“I came for my daughter,” Maleficent says primly, which both makes perfect sense and is no explanation at all.

 

* * *

 

There are practical implications to Regina's insight.

In truth, she should have seen them herself—she's supposed to be the great strategist here, the one who plans and sees potential outcomes. But she's occupied, with Henry dragging her and Roland to see every corner of New York City that's even vaguely worth seeing. It doesn't even matter that half of it is little more than department stores, ice cream shops, and the like. It doesn't matter that she knows what he's doing, most likely with Emma's blessing; she knows what those frowns and those intense gazes and gentle _are you okays_ are really about.

None of that matters; these days are precious beyond imagination, and Regina just wants to _hold them_ and never, ever let them go.

She's so wrapped up and singularly focussed on the _now_ in a valiant attempt to fight off _then_ that she completely neglects the future. Emma, however, does not.

“So what _exactly_ is this about, Miss Swan?” Regina asks as Emma starts the car. “Or did you run out of ways to get Henry to distract me?”

Emma glances sidelong at her. “Hey, I didn't come up with anything. The last two weeks have been all his work.”

“I'm sure.”

“I mean—fine, I gave him a little nudge,” Emma says, and her voice is harder than Regina had been banking on, thin and jagged. “But I just _thought_ you—”

“Emma.” And, with that one word, the twists and knots in Emma's shoulders and neck drift away. Distantly, Regina wonders just how much stress the last few weeks have placed on her as well. “I appreciate it, I really do. But that doesn't answer my question.”

Emma shifts the car into gear with a rickety wheeze. “So you know how we've been staying in a hotel?”

“I have managed to notice that, yes.”

“And that's kinda expensive.”

“For you, perhaps. I _am_ a queen, after all.”

A glare, but an amused one. “Ass. But you know how this—this thing, the trial, it could take a few months.”

Regina has an inkling, just an inkling, of where this is going, but nothing concrete yet. “Emma—”

“Nothing's been decided yet,” Emma blurts out in a rush, as if wanting to make that absolutely clear. “And it's all temporary. If you don't want to do this, you don't have to—”

“ _Emma._ You're making no sense.” Although the dots are rapidly lining up, and Regina is about to start drawing lines.

The traffic grinds to a halt, and Emma takes the opportunity to close her eyes for a moment and take one long, deep breath. “I, um, found us a place,” she says, barely above a murmur.

Regina stares.

“It's just an apartment,” Emma says and she's back to her uncharacteristically nervous blabber, her hands fidgeting on the wheel in a way that tells Regina that this _matters_. “I thought that we could—it's just a temporary lease, we can terminate it at any time and—”

“You found us a place.” Regina's voice is low, partly breathless. “For—for the four of us?”

Emma looks at her at last—and there, there's that small smile and those bright, bright eyes.

“Yeah. For the four of us.”

 

* * *

 

Henry, of course, had known for the last week. _Traitor._

“ _Mo-om_ ,” he whines in response, but Regina can _hear_ the smirk through the phone. “It was my idea, anyway. It's a nice place. You'll like it.”

 

* * *

 

She doesn't.

It's overpriced. The décor is a little too yellow-and-blue for Regina's tastes. The furniture is disappointingly simplistic. The kitchen appliances are suspect at best, and there is something disconcerting in the extreme about the way the elevator creaks on the way up.

“Perfect for a family,” their prospective new landlord announces once they've been given the tour, and Regina fights to hide the depth of her disagreement.

But it _is_ spacious, brightly—and naturally—lit, pre-furnished, comfortable after its own fashion, and perfectly located for their needs.

“So,” Emma says quietly as Regina inspects the small wooden dining table. There are chips in the legs, and Regina can see tiny splinters flaking off the corners. “What do you think?”

She swirls her tongue around her mouth, searching for the right words. Emma sees her hesitation, steps towards her, brushes her arm.

“If you're not okay with this, then we can—not. That's completely fine.”

A choice. Emma is giving her a _choice_.

“It's temporary,” she says, careful and controlled and not daring to think what lies down this path they're stepping down. “Just for a few months.”

Slowly, slowly, a smile. “Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

The lease—a modified, heavily negotiated version—is signed within the hour.

Regina signs first, and Emma squeezes her elbow.

 

* * *

 

Snow disapproves.

Emma makes that patently obvious to both Regina and Henry, informing them second-hand via rigid, brittle tones as she explains to her mother what they had just done.

“No, Mary Margaret, I'm not—” A short, sharp intake of breath, unsteady and slightly frantic. “It's just temporary, alright? She needs her family right now with everything going on, and so do I.”

_Family._

Regina looks around, slowly, but Emma is still deep in frustrated conversation.

“No, I know but I—” An audible sigh, maybe even a groan. “I still need some time to deal, okay? And Maleficent told me to wait out Gold.” A pause, and Emma's voice loosens a touch. “Sure, come down any time. Okay. Bye, Mom.”

The call ends.

 

_* * *_

 

Later, over coffee: “Your family is in Maine.” _Our family,_ a voice whispers.

Emma blinks. “Uh, yeah,” she says, like it's the most obvious statement in the world. And yes, it is, but—

“So when you told your mother that you needed your family...”

Emma latches on instantly, looks directly at her. “Well, it's not _all_ in Maine.”

Regina thinks of the teenage boy sleeping mere yards away. “No, I suppose not.”

But Emma's gaze is warm, so warm, and Regina wonders.

 

* * *

 

She places a rose on Robin's grave once a week.

It feels right, that sort of frequency. More often and Regina knows she'll be drawn inexorably inwards, and there is very little that's pleasantries and sunshine in _there_ _;_ introspection has never been kind to her. Less often and—Regina doesn't even contemplate the thought.

She doesn't say anything when she's there. That would feel, well, _false_ somehow. Like she'd be compensating for the all the words they hadn't shared while he was alive, trying to fabricate memories she doesn't actually have. Instead, she just bends down and places the rose delicately against the cold marble.

There are three of them now.

 

* * *

 

When she returns, all pandemonium seems to have broken loose. She can hear both Emma and Henry's muffled shouts and high-pitched cries bordering on screams even before she knocks on the door.

“It's Roland,” a pale and thoroughly exhausted-looking Emma says bluntly when she opens up. “He's been crying for the last hour, asking for his Mom. I tried to call you but—”

Regina goes straight inside without a word and envelops the crying child in her arms, and desperately refuses to think about how well it seems to work as she whispers the tears away.

 

* * *

 

**four.**

 

“Why is this so important to you?” she asks Emma a few nights after they move into the (temporary, _temporary_ ) apartment.

Emma looks up from her work—actual work of the bail-bondswoman variety, since she'd decided to resume her job to pay the bills. It's entirely unnecessary, as Regina has explained on three separate occasions, but Emma Swan will probably have the word _stubbor_ _n_ engraved on her tombstone. Most likely at the top, in oversized capital letters.

(She knows that Emma would probably say the same about her, but she prefers _persistent_ instead.)

“What, this poor guy's emails?” Emma asks.

“Helping with the trial. Staying with Roland and Henry and I. The apartment. _T_ _his_.”

“Henry wanted it. He worries about you a lot, you know.”

And her chest tightens a little at the thought—but no. She knows what those words are designed to achieve, and she has to keep her discipline. “Emma, I mean _you._ Why does this matter so much?”

“Okay, simple answer? I worry about you too, and you needed me.”

On instinct: “I don't _need—_ ”

“Seriously, Regina. I'm not that blind.”

Regina glowers, and opens her mouth to argue—

( _An afternoon of pouring rain before a gravestone, a morning greeted with tear tracks already on her cheeks, an evening spent holding far too tightly onto_ _a_ _whimpering_ _four-year-old_ _—_ )

—but doesn't.

“Plus,” Emma continues, tilting her head slightly as if aware of the words that Regina hadn't just said. “I made you a promise, remember?”

Regina swallows, her throat tightening. Her _happy ending_ is six literal feet under the ground, isn't it? “That doesn't explain the apartment.”

Emma's eyes fall, and her hands start fidgeting with the sleeve of her shirt. “No.”

“So—”

“I wanted something that was just _mine—_ and yours,” Emma adds, her words shy and quick. “All of ours. Some place where I—we could just be _us_ _,_ even if it's only for a while. Does that make sense?”

Regina thinks of curses centuries in the making, pixie dust, a story sealed in ink, and—yes. Yes, it does.

She reaches over to Emma's hands, brushing over twitching fingers, and feels all the tension, all the memories and all the fears melt away at the contact.

If only for a moment.

 

* * *

 

The trial finally starts three days later.

At least, the arraignment is three days later. It's not much—it's nothing, in truth. But it's a beginning.

 _Justice_. The word still sounds strange in her head and on her tongue, reminiscent more of her former stepdaughter's world than anything she would have for herself—

“You ready?” Emma asks as they park outside the courthouse and she kills the engine, eyeing Regina carefully.

She steadies her breathing, flattens her emotions, forcibly purges her mind of darkness and rage and _blood_. “Yes.”

 

* * *

 

It's quick and efficient. The charges (criminal impersonation, second degree; murder, first degree) are read out in short order. Zelena is still, impassive, speaking only when requested—and again, there's a bizarrely familiar _hollowness_ in her expression.

Regina does not take her eyes off her for a single second.

The judge looks up, peers over half-rimmed wire glasses.

“How does the defendant plead?”

A beat. A silence.

Zelena shifts for the first time, searching for her sister—and finding her.

“Not guilty.”

 

* * *

 

A quarter to two in the middle of a night, and the city is marginally quieter, marginally darker. It's almost peaceful—at least, as peaceful as a city with a population of over ten thousand times that of Storybrooke's can be.

Regina is vaguely ensconced in some awful yet oddly captivating novel, the rest of her taking in the endless, distant thrum of humanity drifting in through the half-open window when she hears soft footsteps padding up behind her.

“Hi.”

She looks up to see Emma in a dressing gown dropping down in the empty chair opposite her. She raises an eyebrow.

“I thought you'd gone to bed,” she says.

“I did. Couldn't sleep, decided to get up for a bit.” Emma pauses, looks at her with cautious, frowning eyes. “Guess you couldn't either.”

“I'm not one for sleeping much these days,” she says carefully. Sleeping means dreaming, and dreaming means _too late_ and _blood_. Less so of late, but that's not saying much.

“Fair enough. Want to see what's on TV?”

“May as well.” It's not like she was reading that attentively anyway. They settle in to watch what seems to be a _Law & Order_ rerun, but it isn't long before Regina's attention drifts to her own personal entanglements with the justice system. Although to be fair, she suspects that if she had half a mind for it, she could start quite the bidding war for the television rights to her own story—

“Hey,” Emma says softly, jerking her out of her reverie. She looks across to see Emma using that searching, piercing gaze on her, like all of her hidden truths and complexities are being unwound purely by sight. She's used to it by now, though. “You thinking about the trial?”

“I'm wondering how many arms we need to twist to move this farce along,” she says, her tone regaining some of the dry, sardonic character that had gone missing in recent weeks. She _knows_ this is the right way, the _just_ way of doing things, but she doesn't think she's seen a more tedious spectacle than the jury selection yesterday afternoon. “Maybe I could spare some money for a bribe or two.”

Emma snorts. “Kind of illegal, Regina.”

She knows this, of course. She'd written as much in the interminable tome that is the now-thoroughly-ignored Storybrooke Town Code. “Do you think Juror Seven prefers white wine or red? Mm, I know a spell—”

“ _Regina_ ,” Emma reproves firmly, but there's a half-suppressed smile, a sparkle in her eyes which Regina can't help but find slightly mesmerising. Slightly. “It's frustrating, I get it. But there's a process, yeah? We just have to be patient.”

“Patience isn't easy when dealing with my sister.”

“Who has no power, and with about a dozen witnesses, forensics and all kinds of other stuff against her. I'm telling you, Regina, we've _got this_.”

And it makes total and logical sense, particularly in a world where logic seems to have displaced royalty as the object of allegiance. If everything goes as expected, as it _must,_ then—

Well. That's the problem, isn't it? _If._

She swallows. “Emma—”

“Hey.” Emma cuts her off, fingers tracing her forearm, almost a caress. “We're the Saviour and the Queen, and no one's ever beaten us both.”

“Neither of us asked for those titles.”

“No. But here we are anyway.” Her expression is open and light, so light, and Regina can't help but be drawn inexorably _in_ towards wherever Emma is taking them. “How about just Emma and Regina? How's that sound?”

She doesn't have an answer.

 

* * *

 

(Emma looks at her like she already knows.)

 

* * *

 

Once the trial gets into full swing, Regina finds that she too has a day job of sorts as well: making sure every single detail of the case against her sister is absolutely foolproof—and by God does she mean _every single detail._ She suspects that some of the District Attorney's office staff are going to start calling her the Evil Queen soon.

After all, a threat of dismemberment doesn't need to have any intent behind it to still be useful.

“Regina,” one ADA says one day after a particularly thorough dissection of a witness statement, part exasperated and part amused, though mostly the former. “If you want my boss's job this much, you really should just run in the next election.”

“Don't tempt me,” she mutters under her breath, and moves onto the next statement.

 

* * *

 

Emma just laughs when she relays the exchange over dinner.

“Oh, God. Imagine _you_ trying to campaign for an election,” she manages between chortles.

Regina grinds her teeth. Trust _Emma_ , gold-standard fool that she is, to distil her irritation down to a joke.

(And no, it doesn't matter that it's a good one.)

“Miss Swan—”

“ _Regina Mills for DA, because everyone else running is a peasant_ ,” Emma mock-proclaims. Regina gives her a glare that is somewhere between displeased and outright menacing, but it only makes Emma snicker even more.

“I'd vote for you, Mom,” Henry says with a wry and impudent grin. “Probably.”

“You'll be grounded for life if you don't,” Emma adds. Regina scowls, but Henry is already laughing, and the slipstream drags Roland into giggles too.

Regina still can't put a name to what this is, but right now she doesn't care.

 

* * *

 

(That's a lie, of course. She cares very, very much.)

 

* * *

 

**five.**

 

Three things Regina learns about Emma Swan whilst living with her:

Number one. Emma is clumsy. Embarrassingly so for someone with such physical presence, going well beyond amusing and veering into downright strange at times. She'd had more than an inkling of it in the past, but she'd put it down to simple incompetence rather than a genuine lack of fine motor control, maybe combined with sheer absent-mindedness. Maybe it's all of them at once.

“Hey, that's not fair.”

“It kind of is, Mom,” Henry pipes up, smirking as he helps Emma clean up the shattered remains of yet _another_ mug accidentally knocked off the table by a loose leather-jacketed elbow. “The absent-minded bit anyway.”

“I am _not_ absent-minded, _”_ Emma grumbles, and the expression she's wearing is surely more suited to a jilted puppy of some description than an immensely gifted sorceress.

“Didn't you leave for work last week whilst still in your pyjamas?” Regina asks.

“I was in a rush! I didn't even have time for coffee—”

“Sure, Mom. Sure,” Henry coos, complete with condescending pat on the back, and he's never been _her_ _son_ any more than he is right now. Oh, what she'd give to somehow bottle this moment, this _glow_ inside her and store it for posterity.

Emma, meanwhile, simply glowers at them both.

 

* * *

 

Number two. Emma is very good with children.

This shouldn't have been a surprise, given how effortlessly she'd bonded with Henry back _then_ , but at the time she'd put it down to genetic affinity when she'd thought about it at all (which had been as little as she could get away with, thank you very much). But apparently Emma has a genuine knack for it.

Of course, she doesn't tell Emma as much. Not in those words, anyway.

“Wow. Thanks. You're really kind,” Emma replies with a roll of her eyes, her voice dripping sarcasm. She's wearing a grin, though, which tells Regina that they're still in safe territory.

“There are worse things to be to be than _not terrible,_ dear.” She definitely wouldn't give Snow the same courtesy, for one; although to the woman's credit, Neal has not, to the best of her knowledge, been boxed up and sent to some distant land. Yet. “Roland likes you a great deal.”

“He's a good kid,” Emma says, fondness underwriting her words—but her expression soon clouds as she places a blanket over the sleeping boy in question. “He's been through a lot.”

“We all have.” Regina turns to Emma. “I do mean it, by the way—thank you for taking care of him today.” Regina had, of course, been at the trial, and Henry had been reconnecting with his friends from the previous year, so Emma had taken Roland to Central Park. By their dishevelled state upon their return, they'd done little but play tag all day.

“Any time.” But Emma's face is still tense, with a locked jaw and pressed lips. “You do such a good job with them—both Henry and Roland.”

A frown. “What's that meant to mean?”

“I mean—” Emma ducks her head, stares resolutely at the floor. “You know. What you did—what you're _doing—_ I never got to do that. You remember how bad I was at trying to calm Roland down that day.”

“Do you know that I had similar problems with Henry when he was very young?”

From the rapid blinks and slightly open mouth, she can tell that Emma didn't, but—“It's not the same. You had no experience and no one really to help you out and your own mother was a super shitty role model—no offence,” she adds hastily.

“None taken.” Almost. There'll always be that irrepressible streak inside Regina which insists otherwise.

Emma looks a little relieved and less tense, but not much so. “But I—I'm supposed to be a mother, and I _remember_ being a mother, but that was all _you_ anyway, and I—”

“ _Emma._ ” She steps forward, places both hands just above Emma's elbows and smooths some of the shivering tension away. “If you're expecting me to chastise you for giving Henry away, then I'm afraid you're going to be awfully disappointed.”

Emma chokes out a laugh which—is good. It's good.

“What you give Henry—it's not something I could ever match,” Regina continues. “You're the one he looks up to. Aren't you the one always telling me to live in the present, and not the past?”

Emma shakes her head rapidly. “That's not true. Regina. He—”

“He _does_. Why do you think he keeps calling you a hero? His idol, if his school assignments are to be believed.”

“He shouldn't,” Emma says, and there's such sharp bitterness in those words that Regina can't stop herself from reaching up, brushing locks of golden-blonde hair away from downcast eyes.

“Perhaps not. But I think we both have too many heroes in our lives, wouldn't you agree?” Regina quips, and Emma snorts, relaxes a little. “He needs to learn that people are more complicated than that. Who better than us—than _you_ to teach him? You're his _mother_.”

Emma looks away to the sleeping boy, brown hair falling across an utterly tranquil face.

“Yeah—yeah. I guess so.”

 

* * *

 

 _Mama,_ Roland calls Emma a few weeks later, and Regina's heart stops—

But Emma looks at her and the smile comes, brilliant and grateful and _warm_ , like she's being drenched in sunlight, and she breathes again.

 

* * *

 

Number three. Emma, after all this time, still hasn't fully worked things through with her mother, and _this_ one isn't a surprise at all. It had taken Regina decades to do the equivalent, after all, and she's still far from finished—if such an outcome is even possible.

(It probably isn't.)

They've been in New York for close to three months when she realises the depth of the damage, as this is the day when Snow decides to make good on her request and drop by to see them. Emma is out, and given the way her voice instantly goes rock-hard and dead flat when Regina relays the news, she'll be out for quite some time.

Snow sighs. “Figures. She must be so busy with the trial.”

“We both are.”

“How's it going?”

“Zelena's lawyer is using every trick in the book to slow us down,” Regina rubs her temples. “Emma and I haven't even been scheduled to appear as witnesses yet.”

“And apart from that? Emma says you've been doing really well, given everything.”

She wonders at that; it's true, she supposes, she has been doing well, and every now and then she can feel a proximity to some vague form of happiness—usually in the evenings, when the three people she dares not collectively call _her family_ have dinner together.

But happiness, like all things, needs foundations, and these are saturated with blood, built from red roses.

(Eleven of them now.)

“In a sense. I do my best to keep busy.” With the trial, with her _children_.

“And Emma?”

“Emma has her job—it's why she's out,” Regina adds.

“She's—she's working?” Snow blinks her wide, wide eyes over her mug of cocoa. “She has a job?”

“You haven't forgotten what Emma did _before_ Henry brought her to Storybrooke, have you?”

“No, but—” A hand running through pixie-cut hair. “She didn't tell me she had a _job_. That sounds—”

“Permanent?” Regina sighs—she's had exactly the same thoughts more than once, immediately banishing them each time. She's still far too frightened to actually name what Emma is giving her, but she's not so stupid as to second-guess it. “She says it's to pay the bills and rent.”

Snow raises both eyebrows so high they all but disappear into her hairline. “The bills which are—”

“—already taken care of, as I've explained to her.” Five times on that one now. “But that's her decision.”

“She hasn't told you her real reasons, has she?”

In cryptic words that lead nowhere, in soft smiles, in gentle touches and rippling laughs which must surely signify something bigger _,_ more immense—“No. But I wouldn't tell you if she had.”

“Regina—”

“Talk to her,” she says, trying to sound imploring but instead sounding, well, tired. “These aren't my secrets to keep.”

 

* * *

 

Snow does, and evidently it goes badly, because when she comes out of the bedroom she'd shut herself in for the last hour, her eyes are bloodshot and her usually-pristine complexion is splotchy. Regina is the middle of reading to Roland when Snow sits in the chair opposite, clutching her phone so tightly that Regina is half convinced it'll crumple in her fingers.

“Mary Margaret—”

“It's fine, don't worry.” The smile Snow gives her is about false as the brightness in her voice, and Regina is almost impressed (though mostly disturbed) at the woman's ability to project cheer onto just about anything. She supposes it's for Roland's benefit, as the boy is already looking at Snow with curiosity on his furrowed brow. “Do you want me to make some tea?”

Well, she supposes that if she blows this particular mother-to-mother chat off, she'll come to regret it. Or at least become very, very irritated. She sighs.

“Let me finish this, then I'll do it myself.”

 

* * *

 

It's honestly worse than Regina had anticipated. Much, much worse.

“It's been _months_!” Snow half-cries, half-shrieks, loud enough that Regina gives her a quick glare lest she draw Roland's attention from his bedroom. She's resigned to the fact that Henry will already be listening in. “I know she's still angry at me. I understand exactly why she's still upset, but if she could just _talk—_ ”

“What did she actually say?”

“Nothing! That's the point! She talks about the apartment and Henry and the trial and you, but she never says anything about herself.” And Regina is about to object to this exceptionally unorthodox definition of the word _nothing_ , but she stops herself, counts to ten.

Snow isn't the first mother to have trouble gaining forgiveness from her child.

“I hoped—I just wish she would let me apologise.”

Regina sighs, but keeps her arm squashed awkwardly behind Snow's shoulders. How it got _there_ , she genuinely cannot recall. “First, you have to understand what you're apologising _for_.”

“Of course I do. David and I did a terrible thing to Lily—”

“Not Lily. _Emma_.” She wets her lips, swallows a little. “You were so determined to make Emma a hero that you never asked yourself if she even wanted to be a hero. You decided who she was going to be before she even _existed_. Do you have any idea what that feels like?”

( _Like pain, like darkness, like revenge, like loss—_ )

Snow's eyes are round, gleaming like her daughter's. “I'm sorry,” she says after a long, drawn-out silence.

“Don't say that to me _._ I'm not the one you—”

“Not for that. I'm sorry for coming here like this. I was going to ask her to come back to Storybrooke. I was going to take her from you.”

Regina stills, recoils a little. “Why—why aren't you?” she asks, catching herself just in time and reformulating the question.

“I'm finished taking from you, Regina,” Snow says, gentle and sympathetic. “I've done that too often.”

 

* * *

 

In the end, Emma does come home in time for a family dinner of sorts at the local diner before Snow has to take an urgent taxi back to the airport. It's pleasant—or, more precisely, not excruciating—and Emma seems to be getting on just fine with her mother at first glance.

But Regina is smarter than that, and she knows what those saccharine smiles from Snow and those slightly averted eyes from Emma mean.

“You _are_ going to have to deal with your issues with your parents eventually, Emma,” she says later that night, when it's just the two of them again.

“Eventually,” Emma agrees, and leaves it at that.

 

* * *

 

It's the next day, the next evening just as she's gone to bed that it occurs to her: in order for Snow to take from her, there has to be something _to_ take in the first place. Something of _hers_.

( _Some place where we could just be us,_ _even if it's_ _only for a while._ )

She sits up, all exhaustion suddenly banished, because—

( _How about Emma and Regina? How's that sound?_ )

Oh, it suddenly all makes sense.

She gets up immediately and heads for the living room. Emma is still there, watching some godawful late-night comedy.

“Emma.”

Emma looks up.

“Hi. Wanna come watch? You'll hate it.”

Regina swallows, her throat having unexpectedly dried—suddenly, the words brewing within her, the questions, the realisations she's just had seem of importance whatsoever.

“Sure.” She walks over and sets herself down on the couch right next to Emma, leaning into her—which draws a sharp and audible intake of breath and a stunned look, and for one terrifying moment Regina wonders if she's horribly misread this whole situation.

But it passes, the shock passes—and there, right there, that small, warm smile _._

 

* * *

 

(Is it possible to become addicted to a smile?)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are quite legitimately wondering the lack of a, well, sexual assault or rape charge: as I said, I hadn't forgotten. In fact, I looked it up; as far as I can tell, obtaining sexual consent through fraudulent means (e.g. impersonation) is not, in fact, illegal in the state of New York. Nor is it in many other places.
> 
> Needless to say this was something of an unpleasant surprise. Why this is (a) still the case and (b) not more public, I will refrain from speculating here, lest we all get sidetracked by a long-winded rant.
> 
> If anyone with more up to date or more expert knowledge wants to correct me, however, then I'll happily fix this.


	3. in blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad news: there's another significant character death in here, though this one very much “off-screen” and implied only. I promise that I'm not usually this vicious—not like this, anyway.
> 
> To be more precise, remember how I said the Gold/Author plotline would be quietly rolled up in the background? I may have unintentionally lied about the “quietly” bit, because I realised that there was no reasonable way I could devote as small a section to it as I'd originally planned (though I'd always planned something along these lines). Turns out it actually needed an entire chapter.
> 
> Oh well. The trial will be dealt with next chapter.

**six.**

 

She wakes up to heat, a searing streak painted across her face and a rhythmic throbbing in her head.

Hazily, she blinks her eyes open—then immediately closes them again, squeezing them shut with alarmed urgency lest she's permanently blinded by the dazzling sunlight burning directly into her skull. _Well, that at least explains the heat._ She shuffles uncomfortably, attempting to turn away—only to get a muffled groan for her troubles.

She opens her eyes again.

“Trying to crush me, Regina?” Emma asks groggily, attempting to blink the sleep fog from her bright (five seconds awake, and already so _bright_ ) eyes. “Hi.”

“Emma.” Their faces are much too close and bodies much too entangled, so much so that Regina can _feel_ Emma breathing—how had they ended up both sleeping on the couch, anyway? How had they ended up sleeping on the _same_ couch, with one of Emma's arms sprawled over Regina's torso? “What—?”

A crease in Emma's otherwise-smooth brow. “You don't remember?”

Regina frowns, racking her oddly vague—which surely means alcohol-affected—memory. She remembers that she'd been about to go to bed when she'd realised something _important,_ something she'd had to talk to Emma about without delay. But she also remembers that upon coming out here to find her, she'd been distracted by some dreadful TV show and _apple cider and tipsy laughter and the tickle of soft blonde hair against her cheek, her jaw—_

She blinks. “Uhm, not particularly.”

A tiny narrowing of green eyes, almost imperceptible—then Emma relaxes with a sigh, and Regina is awfully aware of just how much body weight Emma is placing on her right now. “I remember we watched Jimmy Fallon.”

“Unfortunately.”

“You have no sense of humour.”

“You mean that I have _taste_.” In secret honesty, she had found _some_ of the jokes fairly amusing, but she has a reputation to maintain.

Emma laughs, giving Regina a nudge—a light one, without any force, because part of her body is already hanging off the couch. “Whatever, your majesty,” Emma says, before running a hand through her messy blonde hair, smoothing out the minuscule knots and curls which had developed whilst she'd been squashed against the back of the couch.

Regina tries to look away, but she fails. She is about five inches away, after all.

“Ugh, my head. What time is it?” Emma asks, shifting as if preparing to move.

Regina takes the hint, sits up. “Half past nine. Henry ought to have woken up by now.” The fact that they had both woken up undisturbed by nothing but the harsh intensity of the morning sun was proof enough that he hadn't.

“It's Saturday, Regina,” Emma implores, though in a voice that is clearly resigned to losing this particular argument. Again. “Let the kids sleep.”

 _The kids._ Not _your kids._

(Isn't it strange how one word can make such a difference?)

“Regina? Something up?” Emma is now sitting as well, but still with a hand draped over Regina's shoulder, the worn cotton fabric of the tank top a rough texture against the silk covering her torso.

It takes all her self-control not to shiver.

“Nothing. It's nothing.” She stands with a sigh, not needing to turn around to know that Emma's eyes are still fixed resolutely on her. “I'll go wake them up.”

 

* * *

 

Emma knows she's lying—Emma _has_ to know. But she never confirms, and nothing so dangerous, so destabilising as the questions Regina hadn't asked are ever brought up.

Regina can't decide if she's relieved or disappointed.

 

* * *

 

The next visitor to drop by the apartment is most certainly not one Regina had been expecting.

For a moment she's genuinely struck dumb, not quite able to immediately compute the waves of brown hair and bloodshot blue eyes regarding her with studied coolness when she opens the door.

“Regina.”

“Belle.” She composes herself, raises her shoulders. “I wasn't expecting you.”

“It was kind of a spur of the moment thing,” Belle says. “Is Emma in?”

“She's out with Henry. Is there, uh, something you need?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Belle says, and Regina is steadily getting more and more nonplussed by all this. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.” Regina steps to one side as Belle enters. She still doesn't have the foggiest clue what this is about, but given that the last time they'd met she'd held Belle's heart within twitchy fingers, she figures it's wise to be generous.

And speaking of which—

“I'm sorry,” she blurts out suddenly, just as Belle reaches the living room. “For what I did. I—I was terrified, and I made a horrible mistake—”

Belle is still half-in and half-out of the living room door and facing in the direct opposite direction to Regina. “I'm pretty sure I've heard this before.”

She winces, momentarily closes her eyes. “Yes.”

( _You know what my problem is? I never learn from my mistakes._ )

But Belle has turned around, and her expression is—well, it's not _sympathetic,_ not entirely, but it's sombre, seemingly accepting in a way that Regina hadn't expected. Or deserved, frankly.

“I won't lie, I was pretty angry at first. Even angrier than I'd been before, because I was really starting to trust you,” Belle says, her voice low and free of the rage to which she'd referred—but there's a hardness, a rigidity which tells Regina that it's probably free of the trust too. “But then I heard about what he did to you and Robin and I understood, I suppose.”

She looks away, unable to meet those pale blue eyes—part of her, the selfless part, the part nurtured tirelessly by a boy and his mother, is thankful for Belle's understanding. But the rest of her is chilled to the core, her chest constricted, the gunshots echoing through her mind as her sister tells her that she's too late, _too late, too late—_

She takes a long breath, unsteady, audibly heaving, forces her mind to clear. She might not be able to control when and how she goes _there_ , but she at least has the willpower to drag herself out. If only for a while.

“Thank you,” she says, doing her best to keeping the flashback-induced shakiness from her voice.

Belle tilts her head, studies her closely. “It still hurts?”

“It's only been a few months.” With Daniel, it had taken over _four decades._

(Ongoing.)

Suddenly, without even a hint of a warning,Belle laughs. _Laughs._

Regina stiffens instantly, her temper flash-boiling as shock overtakes her—but then she notices the harsh pitch, the sharp biting tenor lacking joy or mirth or _happiness._

“Belle...”

“I'm sorry, that was really rude. I just couldn't help myself,” Belle explains in a voice which is suddenly too strained, too thin—and for the first time, Regina notices the unusually frayed hair, the liquid glaze over the eyes, the tell-tale sign of makeup-tainted tear streaks. “It's—a few months, yeah? For me it's been just a few days.”

And Regina thinks she knows where this is going, but she doesn't dare, doesn't _dare_. “ _Belle—_ ”

“He's dead, Regina. Rumple's dead.”

 

* * *

 

It takes over three seconds for Emma to speak when she relays the news.

“You're kidding.”

“I am not.”

“Gold is _dead?_ For real this time?”

“And his wife just dropped by to tell me in person.”

“His wife—oh.” Emma's voice has gone low and alarmingly quiet. “Oh, fuck _._ ”

 _Oh, fuck_ is about right. “She's still here.”

“How's she doing?”

Regina glances back towards the living room, where Belle is curled up on the couch, motionless and vacant. She sighs, feeling an old exhaustion creeping over her. “Have a guess, Emma.”

A momentary pause, then—“ _Fuck_ —okay. Okay. Do—do you want me to come home?”

 _Yes._ More than ever. More than she describe. But _want_ and _need_ are two very different things, and Belle had come to see _her_ , in person.

A breath in, a breath out.

“No. You need to tell Henry that—” She swallows, closes her eyes, hates herself. “That his grandfather is gone.”

 

* * *

 

She doesn't say much. She doesn't need to.

Belle talks in broken, halting tones, every word cracked and disjointed like it's taking every ounce of strength she has to merely vocalise her thoughts, but Regina picks up enough. She picks up that Emma's decision to move to New York had deprived the Author of the ink he'd needed to do, well, write. In doing so they'd unwittingly presented Rumple with a stark choice: New York or Storybrooke, power or love.

Evidently he'd finally made the right choice, and it had bought him a grand total of four months.

“I'm sorry, Belle.” And she is—she _really_ is, to her surprise, given what Gold had done to her, what Gold had _taken_ from her.

(You can't demand justice from the dead.)

“It gets better. I know it doesn't seem like it now, but it _does_ get better,” Regina says gently, though despising just how much she sounds like Snow.

“How? How do you do it? How do you keep going?” Belle asks, her voice parched from silent but stoic tears—to be honest, Regina is impressed at how well she's holding up. But then she remembers that this isn't the first time Belle's done this.

Not that it makes it easier. In fact, it's probably the opposite.

“Family helps,” Regina murmurs, wiping away moisture with a handkerchief.

“And beyond that?” And Belle is looking at her with an anguish so total, so _familiar_ , that Regina knows that now is not the time for platitudes. Not from her.

“I don't know.”

 

* * *

 

(After all, if family isn't enough, what is?)

 

* * *

 

That night, Regina doesn't sleep in her own room.

The practical reason is that she'd offered Belle her own room for the night; but even if Belle had gone to a hotel Regina would still be here, knocking gently on her first son's door.

“Come in,” a voice says. A female voice.

She opens the door slowly, cautiously, unsure of what she'll find _._

“Hey,” Emma says softly from the bed. Roland is tucked sleepily into one side of her, Henry burrowed into another. “We were waiting for you.”

She joins them silently, expecting to slide in on Henry's other side—but the boy (the boy, still just a _boy_ ) looks at her with red-rimmed eyes and shifts across, making a space between him and his mother.

She hesitates momentarily, but Emma gives a smile, wan and coloured by the stresses of the day, and she settles in. Without further ado, Henry presses his body into hers, a blonde-haired head rests on her shoulder, and this—this is enough.

This _must_ be enough.

 

* * *

 

**seven.**

 

She really, really does not like flying.

Okay, that's not strictly true. Actual flying of the magical or dragon-assisted kind, with the wind whipping past her face and her hair streaming joyfully behind her, that's something she loves. However, flying of the _trapped in narrow seat in giant metal can_ variety? She's not so fond of that.

It's why, once the aircraft starts accelerating down the runway, she becomes distinctly and uncharacteristically nervous, clenching and unclenching her fists on the armrest and silently grinding her teeth—

“Mom,” Henry, who has been a picture of confident ease, bumps her arm lightly, his brow furrowed. “Are you okay?”

“I don't think she likes flying, kid,” Emma says from the opposite side, and Regina runs through the many curses she knows that could wipe that half-grin from Emma's face.

“I'm fine,” she forces out between gritted teeth.

A roll of Emma's eyes. “Regina, come on. It's natural to be a little worried about going on a plane for the first time—”

“I'm _fine_ , Miss Swan.” And she is. She most definitely is. She knows that aircraft are by an enormous margin the safest form of travel this world has. She knows that it's a one-hour flight, then they're back in Maine and on the way to Storybrooke. And she knows that in two days they'll be back to New York, the trial, her youngest son and that apartment she dares not call home.

(Out loud, anyway.)

 

* * *

 

Mary Margaret is there to pick them all up.

Her first attention is reserved for Belle, giving her the full Snow White patented sympathy hug. It's accepted quietly, with that same clear-eyed dignity which had been impressing Regina for most of the last day or so. Next on the list is Regina herself, which is quite frankly mortifying but also blessedly short.

Then it's Emma's turn.

Regina doesn't hear exactly what Snow whispers to her daughter, and isn't enough of a skilled lip-reader to guess. But she sees Emma's mouth curve into a fragile smile, the grip around her mother's back tightening a little, and—

“Regina?” Emma disentangles herself from Snow, frowning at Regina with sudden confusion. “What's wrong?”

Her heart has started to pound in her chest and she can hear those old voices whispering, _whispering_ in those spaces beneath her consciousness.

( _I'm finished taking from you, Regina._ )

She exhales slowly, composes a thin smile. “Nothing, dear. Shall we get going?”

 

* * *

 

The pair of them end up in the back seats, which means that Emma can watch Regina intently the whole way to Storybrooke.

Regina, on the other hand, makes eye contact with precisely no one.

 

* * *

 

Ten minutes before they reach the town line: “It wasn't actually the flight, was it?”

Regina blinks daydreams of children's toys and apple cider from her eyes, lifts her head off the window. “Hm?”

“This thing that's been bothering you all day. It's something else, right?”

“How do you know that something's been bothering me?”

“Regina.”

She closes her eyes. She should have known that Emma would be stubborn about this—Emma always is. She decides on the truth—at least, a small portion of it, as there is no way in all the realms that she'll reveal what's _actually_ on her mind.

(Not least because it's stupid in the extreme—Roland is still back in New York, after all, and they bought return tickets.)

“It's just—just unusual coming back like this.”

A hand on her arm tightening ever-so-delicately, anchoring her. “You thought you'd be coming back with Robin.”

“That was the original plan.”

“I'm sorry that we couldn't.”

Regina's eyes reopen and they whip around, astonished—after all this time, after everything Emma has given her, _is_ giving her, and Emma _still_ feels the need to apologise?

She could live to a thousand years without ever understanding this woman—not completely, at any rate.

“Emma...”

But that gazeisopen, mournful, shining with unshed tears, and Emma doesn't seem to hear her. Below, she feels fingers winding above and through her own.

“I guess I broke my promise,” Emma whispers, cracked and shattered with an infinity of lost hopes and stolen futures, and Regina—

Regina shifts across, rests her head in the hollow between Emma's neck and shoulder, and savours the feeling of soft, warm lips brushing across her forehead.

She doesn't even care about Snow watching them both in the rearview mirror.

 

* * *

 

They roll up to her mansion, and Regina is already wondering how she'll occupy herself tonight with Roland being babysat in New York,Emma staying with her parents, and only Henry around.

( _Only Henry._ She would have sacrificed entire realms to have been given that privilege not so long ago.)

She collects her bag and begins to usher Henry towards the garden path leading to the door, but Snow tugs her back.

“Why don't you guys rest for a bit, then meet us at Granny's in an hour for dinner?”

Regina narrows her eyes. “A homecoming party?”

Snow's expression is friendly but frustratingly opaque. “More of a family dinner sort of thing.”

 

* * *

 

(After all, it's not as if she's actually _coming home_ , right? Merely dropping by.)

 

* * *

 

Despite her fears, said family dinner is… quite pleasant, actually.

Granny's lasagne has improved, for one—a feat driven entirely by competitive envy, Regina is absolutely sure. The conversation is agreeable as well, consisting mostly of catch-ups on the town since _that day_ over four months ago now. Apparently ex-villains and small-town public office go hand in hand, because Maleficent has stayed on as Acting Mayor.

“She isn't what anyone would call nice, but she does a good job,” Charming explains. “She's efficient.”

Regina has half a mind to glare at him, because—“You never said anything so flattering about _my_ period in office.”

“Which came because you cast a curse,” he points out. “Not really a point in your favour, Regina.”

This time Regina _does_ glare at him, but there are grins all around the table, so all she can come up with is, “In any case, I was only Mayor last time because _your wife_ decided she'd rather fill all our children's minds with endless facts about birds than actually run the town.”

Snow objects immediately, which had of course been the whole plan. “Hey! I was a good mayor.”

“Mm, not really, Mom,” Emma contributes between spoonfuls of lasagne, and Regina could just _sing_ at the outrage on Snow White's face right now, even if it's the obviously fake kind.

(Especially if it's the obviously fake kind.)

 

* * *

 

As she'd feared, she soon ends up bored out of her mind once she returns to the cold emptiness of the mansion. She hadn't really noticed before just how _large_ her house was, given that she was its only occupant for eighteen years. Why had she thought _that_ would be a good idea?

(She knows, of course.)

It's almost enough to tempt her into calling Henry down to join her—but she resists, as boredom is an appalling reason to undermine her own attempts at instilling discipline. Because that's exactly what this is, this hollowness in her chest; this heaviness in her stomach of the non-lasagne variety; this constant drifting of her mind to _the kids_ and laughter and TV nights—

It's boredom. It has to be.

She ends up so thoroughly stupefied by the sheer dullness of having _nothing to do_ that she ends up laid out horizontally on the couch, with a half-empty glass of old wine in her hand whilst she watches some late night talk show. At least, she's making a vague attempt at watching some late night talk show as her mind wanders and wanders—

—until a loud knocking resonates through the house.

She's at the door within seconds, smoothing out her dress before opening up. Her eyebrows shoot upwards when she sees who's there.

“Emma?”

“Hi.” Emma is dressed far too thinly for this time of night at this time of year, but even so her pupils are dilated, there's a thin layer of sweat glistening on her forehead and a flush creeping up her neck. Regina stops herself from swallowing. “I—uh, I went for a run.”

“I can see that. Emma, it's nearly midnight.”

“Neal was making a scene _all night,_ and my parents—I had to get out of there,” Emma explains with a shrug, and Regina has never heard an explanation which has made more sense. “Um, can I come in?”

“Of course.” She steps aside to let Emma in, and God, she can _smell_ the sweat on Emma, and it's—it's disgusting. Yes. Most definitely disgusting. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Got cider?”

“Just wine.”

“Aw, that's a shame.”

She rolls her eyes, but goes to collect a glass anyway. “You know, if you like it so much you really could just learn to make it yourself,” she calls out as she returns from the kitchen, only to see Emma standing dead still in the entrance to the living room. “Emma?”

“Jimmy Fallon.” Emma turns around, slowly and methodically. “You're watching fucking Jimmy Fallon.”

Regina blinks, baffled by the drastic shift in topic. “Yes, well, I—I wanted to try and find the appeal.”

“ _Find the appeal_?”

And Regina has absolutely no idea where this conversation is going, but she manages a painfully bashful, “I assumed there was _something_ , because otherwise I, uh, didn't see why—”

But she never gets to elaborate on the _why_ , because Emma eliminates the space between them in one step and kisses her.

 

* * *

 

(For some reason she isn't surprised.)

 

* * *

 

It takes about ten seconds for Emma to break off. Or ten minutes. Or two hundred years.

She can barely breathe, barely _think_ , so she—she just stares, stares at the wild and uncontrolled flame in Emma's eyes, at the way her chest is heaving in and out, at her lips already swollen—

“You—you taste like wine,” Emma mumbles, and Regina wants to laugh, wants to roll her eyes, wants to make some exquisitely sharp remark and point out just how idiotic those words truly are. But all those things require breath that she doesn't actually have, so she picks the better option and dives back in.

 

* * *

 

**eight.**

 

“Regina. Regina, wake up.”

The combination of the voice and the insistent shaking of her shoulders immediately jerks Regina to consciousness. The first thing she notices is that she's not in bed, but instead on her living room carpet. “What—where—”

“You were grinding your teeth really loudly in your sleep there,” Emma murmurs, their noses almost touching. The hands on Regina's shoulders are still there, but they've drifted a little and she can feel small patterns being drawn over the silk. “Like, _really_ loudly.”

“Oh.” She must have woken Emma up. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be.” Emma's lips, which Regina remembers being so swollen and, well, inviting mere hours before are thin, pressed together to match the serious intent in her gaze. “You looked like you were having a bad dream.”

She rolls over a little so she's on her back, stares up at her living room wall. “It's fine.”

“Was it—” A harsh, sharp intake of breath. “Was it about Robin? Or something else?”

She squeezes her eyes briefly shut. “Don't, Emma.”

More tiny circles being drawn on her shoulder, lips being pressed to the tension in her lower jaw. “Okay.” A sigh from Emma. “It's a quarter past seven. We should get up.”

“We should.” Regina stands up, clearing up the empty wine glasses scattered around and dissolving the blanket that had been covering them with a flick of her wrist. It had been magically conjured in the first place, so she isn't actually losing anything. “When is the ceremony again?”

“Ten o'clock,” Emma says, ruffling out her tousled hair, straightening her shirt which had rolled upwards in the night. Regina doesn't— _doesn't—_ stare. “You making breakfast?”

“If I must.” Before she does, though, she redoes the buttons on her shirt, two of which had come loose last night. On this occasion, Emma _does_ stare, and shamelessly so. “Miss Swan.”

Emma blinks, gulps visibly. “Sorry, you're—you're just kind of distracting.”

“Evidently,” she drawls with a smirk. If only she had thought of _this_ sooner. “I trust you'll be able to keep your hands to yourself today? Public displays of affection really aren't appropriate at a burial.”

Emma rolls her eyes with a snort. “Whatever. I'll go wake Henry.”

“Take a shower too,” Regina replies behind her back—before hesitating, turning around. “Oh, and Emma?”

Emma looks back, green eyes questioning. “Yeah?”

“I—uh, I enjoyed last night.” It's an understatement for the ages, but Emma simply smiles that small, sweet smile of hers.

“So did I.”

 

* * *

 

Emma is not, in fact, capable of keeping her hands to herself.

This isn't exactly a shock; Emma's always been a tactile person for as long as Regina's known her, and it comes as no surprise that she's even more so now. Still, Regina can't help but sigh with just a little exasperation when Emma reaches for her hand mere seconds after they step out of the car.

 

* * *

 

(When Emma tightens her grip, though, she squeezes back.)

 

* * *

 

The ceremony is a simple one, short and elegant in the woods with father buried next to son. Regina hadn't seen eye to eye with Rumple on much, but this... this she'd always understood. She tries not to think about the lengths _she_ would go to if the people she loved were removed from her.

(It feels too much like remembering.)

It's a silent ceremony as well, with the majority of the words being spoken by Henry, halting and shaky. Belle had said everything she'd needed to say whilst Rumple was still alive, and the rest of them—well. Their relationships with the Dark One had been too complicated for simple words.

When the time comes, Regina leaves a single red rose on the gravestone, the same as the seventeen she'd left in New York.

(The same as the pair she'd secretly left on her parents' graves after breakfast.)

 

* * *

 

“Thank you,” Belle says to her afterwards, low and quiet.

“What for?” Regina racks her brains, but she can't recall doing anything above and beyond what a sense of basic decency demands.

“For being a friend.” And there, there is that trust Regina had so convinced herself she'd lost forever.

Perhaps her conception of _basic decency_ isn't quite so trivial.

 

* * *

 

The mood livens up steadily during lunch, as everyone had expected—moving on quickly is something of a specialty of the people of this town.

Or maybe that could just be its resident royal family.

Emma is all but super-glued to Regina's side the entire time, constantly bumping her leg with her own and nudging her with her elbow. It's sweet, but also alarming insofar as it draws weighted glances from their son—who Regina is certain already knows, because she is not in the business of raising blind idiots—and Emma's mother.

It's with the deepest trepidation, then, that she offers Snow the vacated seat next to her when Emma goes to catch up with Ruby.

“Thanks.” There's a two second pause, in which Regina foolishly thinks Snow might not bring it up, then—“So Emma didn't come back home last night.”

She suppresses a sigh—if she isn't honest here, she supposes, there'll only be further trouble down the line.

(Assuming there's any further stops on this line at all.)

“She didn't.”

“I'm guessing she went to your place.”

Regina swallows, wets her lips. “We've been living together for a while now.”

“True.”

They both fall silent, neither of them sure how to continue this singularly awkward conversation—but Regina soon realises that _this_ is even worse, this is just _excruciating._

_Bluntness and honesty._

“Look, Mary Margaret, I didn't—” She breathes in, counts to five. “I did not have sex with your daughter, if that's what you're thinking.”

Snow's eyes immediately turn to saucers as their brows shoot skywards, and she—

Is she _smirking_?

“I'll admit, the thought did cross my mind.” And yes, that is most _definitely_ a smirk. That list of curses from yesterday suddenly seems of utmost importance right now. “And I was a little tempted to try and find one of your dark magic books when it did.”

Not so long ago—maybe even just a year ago—those words would have curdled her blood, set it aflame, but not now. Snow White is, for better or worse, _family_ , terrible jokes or no.

“Like you would be capable of useful magic,” she mutters, which draws a roll of the eyes from Snow. “Look—yes, she came around. But we—we talked. That's all.”

 _Again_ with the eyebrows. “That's all? You didn't do anything _else_?”

No. No, they hadn't done anything else. Not unless the definition of _anything else_ included quiet laughing kisses on the floor of her living room for hours on end as the TV droned meaninglessly above them.

“Regina.” Snow shifts over, grasps one of her hands which had been rapidly clenching and unclenching. It doesn't unwind all of the tension, but there's a sparkle, a coruscating light in those wide eyes which suggests that maybe this won't _quite_ be the disaster she'd feared. “It's fine. I'm happy for both of you.”

Regina blinks, her mouth gapes a little. “You—you are? You're really okay with this?”

“Really. It's not like it's much of a surprise.”

She frowns, formulates a probing question—but then remembers conversations over tea and a dinner at a New York diner.

“And you're—you're not _scared_ of this? Of what this could mean?”

That glimmer of light fades a little from Snow's eyes, and the amusement dies away. “Oh, I am. But not nearly as much as I think you two are.”

Regina doesn't dare think about just how accurate that is.

 

* * *

 

That night, Regina makes dinner for three, and sets the table accordingly.

When Henry sees the plates laid out around the table, he just walks up to her and envelops her in a hug so tight that she struggles to breathe for a moment.

 

* * *

 

Later, they're on the couch again, this time watching a movie. (Thankfully.)

Or rather, Regina watches, as a useful alternative to thinking or remembering or worrying or all those other asphyxiating things her mind wants to impose on her. Emma, however, isn't, given the way she's burrowing deeper and deeper into her side, her eyes quite obviously not fixed on the screen.

“You're thinking,” Regina murmurs, drawing Emma upwards to look at her with an expression so soft, so delicate that her heart skips at least three beats. “Why are you thinking?”

Emma folds her head back down under Regina's chin, lets Regina gently stroke up and down her bicep.

“We go home tomorrow.”

Of course Emma would be the first. Of _course_ she would. Of the two of them, she's always, _always_ been the braver.

Regina nuzzles the top of Emma's head, savours the scent, the _moment._

“Tomorrow.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As for the Dark One: assume it's bound to a mouse somewhere, cursed to eternally run on a spinning wheel.


	4. in infrared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I finally start to justify the second relationship tag on this story. Also, this chapter felt kind of weird to write the whole way through, so, uh, let me know what you think?

**nine.**

 

Upon their return to New York, they don't go straight back to the apartment—back _home_. Regina has a son to pick up, after all.

“He's a sweet boy,” the babysitter—an Emily of forty-five—tells them over Regina's thank-you apple turnover. It's devoured with all the gusto of someone who has no inkling of her history with baked goods—although Emma can't exactly use that excuse, eternal nine-year-old around food that she is. “He's missed his parents, however.”

“I know. We miss them too,” Regina says, her voice laden with months-old exhaustion, as she runs her hand rhythmically through Roland's hair, the boy curled up sleepily on her lap. He's had no difficulty at all accepting her as his mother, but occasionally he still asks questions that Regina is not even remotely capable of answering.

Emily gives them a _look_. “I was actually talking about you two. Both of you.”

Regina goes very, very still.

“Oh.”

She glances sidelong at Emma, but the woman seems suddenly incapable of meeting her eyes.

 

* * *

 

On the drive back home, she finds out why.

“I'm actually okay with it, you know.”

Regina tightens her grip on the steering wheel, looks across, but Emma's gaze is still firmly directed towards the multicoloured dazzle of upper Manhattan beyond the windshield. “What?”

“If you don't want me to be anything to Roland other than, um, his mom's girlfriend or a weird aunt or—”

“Emma.”

“—whatever, that's totally cool, that's—”

“ _Emma._ ” The extra edge in her voice is explicitly designed to stop Emma's nervous jabbering, and it works immediately. “Would you—” She pauses, purses her lips, ignores the way her chest seems to have contracted like it's being compressed by a metal band. “Would you like to be?”

“Be what?”

She fights to keep her voice strictly and rigorously neutral. “A mother to Roland. Do you want to be that?”

(She already knows the answer to this question, of course.)

A suppressed gasp, a sharp intake of stunned breath. “You'd do that? You'd let me?”

“It isn't up to me.” And she _knows_ that Emma is about to argue the point, but she doesn't have the time to explain the monolithic vastness, the unquantifiable power that is _fate_ , so she continues: “If Roland thinks you're his— _one_ of his mothers,” she corrects herself, because her acceptance only reaches so far, “then I won't stand in the way. That's what family means, doesn't it?”

( _You will have the life you've always wanted._ )

Emma is looking at her, _finally_ looking at her, bathing her with that same star-bright awe and gratitude that's both familiar and entirely unfamiliar. “I don't want you to feel like I'm taking your son away from you. I wouldn't do that.” _Again,_ Regina hears, and for one terrifying second something old and malevolent and pitch-black rises up within her—

But the light, that _light_ being directed at her from the passenger's seat is even more addictive, and it takes every ounce of Regina's self-control to not reach across and _touch._ She is driving, after all.

“I know.”

 

* * *

 

When they finally arrive home, Emma drags her by the hand to an empty room and kisses her so hard she actually begins to feel faint for a few seconds.

“That,” she says at Regina's utterly bewildered expression, “was a thank you.”

She could get used to this.

 

* * *

 

Nothing changes.

Okay, that's not strictly accurate. Emma, for one, becomes even _more_ handsy, more uncoordinated around Regina's presence. Regina loses her phone to an upturned mug of coffee the next week as a result, and all she can do is roll her eyes and glare.

“You're distracting when you look like that!” Emma splutters between profuse apologies. “It's a serious problem—”

“I'm sure, dear.” Fine, maybe the pencil skirt is a bit much, but she has to find her fun somewhere. Even if it does cost her a four-hundred-dollar phone.

 

* * *

 

Henry, on the other hand, becomes _insufferable._

“ _Mo-oms,”_ he whines when he catches them at it instead of cooking dinner. “Do you guys have to make out, like, all the time?”

Regina gives him what has to be the most intimidating scowl she's ever directed towards him, but the effect is rather lost. For one, there's the fact that one of her hands is still around the back of Emma's neck, the other on her lower waist. “Henry Daniel—”

“Like, I'm totally happy that you guys are together,” he says, and the sincerity he exudes is literally the only reason Regina is tolerating such _awful_ behaviour. Where had he learned to _smirk_ like that? She'd have to have a word with Mary Margaret, as it must surely be her fault. “But you don't have to be super-gross about it.”

And Regina is genuinely outraged, because they do not _make out all the time_. In fact they barely kiss or _touch_ at all, outside of late evenings on the couch and in the morning before Emma goes to work and—

Okay. Maybe a little bit. But not _all the time._

Emma, predictably, has recovered first. “Uh-huh. We'll remember that one every time _you_ try to bring a girl home.”

Henry's jaw falls open and he stares at her in mock offence, and Regina struggles to force down a laugh.

But no. Other than small things, things like Emma actually learning to make supremely awful apple cider, like enrolling Roland in the local daycare, like Regina's entire _world_ being flipped on its head by little words like _love_ and _family_ , nothing changes.

They continue to live in the apartment with a temporary lease. Regina continues to leave silent roses on a gravestone every Sunday afternoon.

 

* * *

 

Her sister's trial soon enters its fifth month, and with it Regina and Emma are finally called to give their testimony.

It's actually far easier than Regina had expected. She'd practised for this with a contact of Emma's, a lawyer who owed a favour. Even without that, though, she's pretty sure she'd breeze through anyway; Zelena's lawyer is an irritant but she knows how to deal with those, and when he snarls out barbed challenges to her, she just smiles her most lethal smile.

Emma's path is not so smooth.

It _seems_ to be at first. In fact, for the first half an hour of the cross-examination, Emma seems almost bored, answering every question with total ease. It's even more assured than Regina had been—not that she'd ever admit that—and Regina is starting to drift into settled confidence—

“Miss Swan, is it true that you know Regina Mills as _the Evil Queen_?”

Emma straightens as if given an electric shock. “What?”

It's enough to make Zelena's lawyer smile wickedly—and suddenly, with flooding horror, Regina realises where this question has come from, and where this is going. This isn't about helping Zelena's case, not at all. This is about _Regina._

“Is it true that Regina Mills is also known as the Evil Queen?”

Emma has paled, her hands fidgeting on the wood in front of her. “Yes. It's a nickname.”

“Mm. And why, exactly, would Regina have such a nickname?” he asks, pacing back and forth like a predator just waiting, _waiting_ for the moment to strike. “Is it true that she despises my client, her sister?”

“Of course. She killed her _boyfriend_.”

“So you say, yet Zelena was the one pregnant with Mr Locksley's child. Meanwhile, Regina shows up with _you_ to Mr Locksley's house unannounced, and in mysterious circumstances Mr Locksley dies almost immediately afterwards,” he says with a dramatic sigh, and Regina has to stop herself audibly grinding her teeth, because there's nothing _mysterious_ about those circumstances at all. Not at the practical level, at least.

But he isn't finished. “Then, six months later, we find out that you two are apparently the most committed of couples. Does this not seem strange to you?”

Emma has that tension, that _look_ that Regina knows from past experience means that she's feeling pressed and cornered. “I don't understand.”

“Then let me put it another way: is it true that your _girlfriend_ has a history of hurting people who get in the way of what she wants, which is you?”

“Objection!” The DA shoots to his feet. “Your honour, this is absolutely clear provocation of the witness—”

“Provocation? I'm merely asking a straightforward question to Miss Swan. After all, she seems to have done _awfully_ well for herself following Mr Locksley's death—”

The DA objects again, and the courtroom soon dissolves into total chaos as the judge attempts to regain control of the situation. Eventually the question is ruled out of order, but Regina can see from the whiteness of Emma's knuckles, the hard set of her jaw, that the damage is done.

 

* * *

 

“I'm sorry,” Emma blurts out immediately when they arrive home. “I—I wish you didn't have to hear that—”

Regina silences her with a kiss, open-mouthed and sweet. “I know, darling,” she murmurs once she breaks off. “I know.”

Emma ducks her head, looks away. “He—he was right, though. About me and _this_ and—”

“It doesn't matter. Whatever Zelena says about us and about _me_ doesn't matter,” she says, low and fierce as she tangles blonde curls around her fingers. “What we have now is what matters.”

It's almost as if she believes it.

 

* * *

 

(Even so, she thinks that Emma holds onto her just a little too tightly that evening, and Regina holds on a little too tightly back.)

 

* * *

 

Not long afterwards, Regina realises she needs to make one completely obvious and long-overdue change to their lives which is in no way minor. Or, rather, she needs to make one change to Henry's life.

And it scares the hell out of her.

Emma, who is in the middle of going through some semi-clandestine material from one of her equally mysterious contacts for a case, turns her attention cautiously to Regina when she brings it up. Emma's expression is cautious, guarded, unsure—in short, exactly what Regina had expected, exactly what she'd feared.

“That's kind of—”

“Yes.” She doesn't need to hear the word _temporary_ right now.

“Are you sure? I mean—”

“I won't have Henry falling behind on his education, Emma.”

“No, I get that, and I—” Emma's words cease as if shorted out, and for one moment Regina thinks this is all going to collapse around her, because she _knows_ Emma Swan now. She knows that Emma, at once the most open and the most closed-off person she knows, will give and give but balk at the first opportunity to _take_ anything resembling solidity and permanence. And what Regina is suggesting—is _offering—_ is far more than mere educational opportunities for her son.

So she's completely unprepared for Emma to say, “I'm in it if you are, but are _you_ sure?”

_No._

Regina inhales deeply, keeps her expression flat. “It's necessary.”

And that, frankly, is all that's important here.

 

* * *

 

Henry is not a fan.

“But—but why? I don't get it, the trial's almost finished—”

“Henry.” She bends down—not far, he's getting so _tall—_ and clasps his chin with trembling fingers, pleading with her eyes. “This is important for you.”

 _For me_ , she doesn't say.

He frowns a little—but then bows his head in acceptance, as if he hears her anyway.

 

* * *

 

(But of course he had. He's her son, after all.)

 

* * *

 

Regardless, when the time comes, he makes a show out of his reluctance. A ridiculously melodramatic show.

“Come on, Henry,” Emma says, prodding him out the door as he makes a complete meal out of tying his shoelaces. “You're gonna be late.”

He simply sighs dramatically, and trudges to the elevator.

His false show of moodiness persists right throughout the car trip, even after Emma tells him to 'cut the crap, kid'. She knows full well that Henry is doing it for Regina's amusement, trying to get her out of the frantic and unbalanced headspace she's been in for days now.

But Regina is distant, eyes fixed on traffic lights and pedestrians and license plates, and she barely even notices them.

 

* * *

 

(If this is what _hope_ feels like, she'll have a pass on it in the future, thanks.)

 

* * *

 

Ten minutes later, he's gone.

Ten minutes of final instructions and rapid nods. Ten minutes of wide-eyed stares at the imposing brick-and-mortar facade of the charter school Regina and Emma had chosen (and persuaded to take Henry, in their own inimitable ways). Ten minutes of Regina watching him disappear into a veritable mass of humanity, tense and small, nervous and shy as he's always been around children his own age.

Emma had assured her that he's _better_ here, he makes friends easily here, and that after the initial nervousness and reluctance to go back, he'd fit in brilliantly just like she had before. But that was a _fake_ life built on _fake_ memories, and now he remembers—

( _He doesn't really have any friends. He's kind of a loner.)_

_Now—_

“Regina.” Emma has quietly moved up beside her, is pressing against her elbow. “Whatever you're thinking right now, stop.”

She blinks moisture— _moisture?—_ from her eyes, the voice breaking through her internal fog. Her breaths are harsh, uneven as if she's drowning in the very air she's breathing. Has she started crying without even noticing? “Emma, I—”

“You don't need to do _anything_. He'll be fine, okay? Trust me.” An arm enclosing around her back at the waist, mooring her even as the storms, wild and furious and far beyond her control, bear down within her. “Please, Regina. _Trust me_.”

In the doorway, a brown-haired boy turns back against the flood of schoolchildren pressing inwards, and smiles at her.

It's just about enough to get her through the day.

 

* * *

 

At least, it's enough until she has her son in her arms again.

She holds him tight, whispering three little words,and for a moment she collapses  _was_ and _might be_ into _is_.

 

* * *

 

That night, as she trails light kisses across Emma's collarbone, Emma asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“About what? About this?” _This_ , of course, being the fact that they're both naked, limbs tangled and with marks on each other's shoulders, a result of their desire to prevent Henry overhearing them.

( _That_ had not been a comfortable conversation last week.)

Emma laughs, her voice roughened by exertion and the last traces of arousal. “Nah. This morning.”

Regina looks up, frowning. Sex, apparently, does not have the mind-clearing effects she'd thought it would. A pity.“Mm, and who replaced you with your mother?”

“Regina.” Emma shuffles onto her side, pulls Regina up so they're face to face. “That wasn't all about Henry, was it?”

She tries to duck her head, turn away—but Emma, stubborn and strong as she is, refuses to let her. “It was about a lot of things.”

Hope. Family. A future.

( _A future that's now gone._ )

Emma closes the distance, brushes her lips softly, so softly against hers, and she feels herself reciprocating. “You're scared of losing all of this.”

And in that softness, in that _understanding_ , Regina knows she's not the only one. In fact, she wonders which of them is really more frightened of—well. Possibility. Fate. _The future._

She wets her lips again, strokes a line up and down one of Emma's shoulders. “Can you blame me?”

“Not really. You've lost a lot already.”

This time she does look away, refusing to let Emma see the swirling darkness she knows is still behind her eyes.

( _An endless wave of screams, cries, pleas for mercy unheeded—_ )

“I've taken far more.”

Emma pulls her back, grounds her again. “Yeah. And maybe you'll never be able to repay that,” Emma says, and Regina closes her eyes because she knows, _she knows—_ “But we're all still here, aren't we?”

“And tomorrow? The day after? Who will be the next demon from my past to come and take away the ones I—”

_Care about—_

_Love—_

_Can't live without—_

“We won't let them,” Emma says, steel and determination. “I made you a promise, remember? I'm gonna try and keep it this time.”

“Everyone deserves their happy ending,” Regina murmurs.

( _Including you._ )

Those eyes are sparkling, and Regina is utterly lost to them. “All of ours.”

 

* * *

 

(Because that's what love is, isn't it? A promise.)

 

* * *

 

**ten.**

 

The trial may be winding down, but Zelena's lawyer is continuing to find creative ways to waste enormous amounts of time. There are supposedly traffic-related delays to deal with; inane witnesses who babble for hours on end about matters which are surely irrelevant; objections on technicalities that even Regina—who has spent months studying every detail in the statues that could be relevant to the case—can't comprehend; and vexatious, nonsensical theories that chew up entire _weeks_ in being dealt with.

The upshot: a supposedly four-week case, according to the DA, is now verging on six months.

Today is particularly bad, as one of their witnesses—a sixty-year-old man who'd lived two floors down from Robin—seems a little rattled by the whole experience, flustered and unsure of his evidence. It's hardly a problem in terms of the case, as he's really just here to back up what other, more confident witnesses (like, well, Emma and Regina themselves) had already given in their own statements.

But it _is_ enough for the attorney to latch onto the vulnerability like a shark to the scent of blood, and it takes an _age_ for them to just get to the part where the witness can actually describe what he'd heard that night—

“Objection! The witness's story is _fascinating,_ ” the lawyer drawls with a sneer, “but entirely irrelevant to the details of this case.”

In the dock, Zelena smiles.

 

* * *

 

(In a way, it's impressive just how much pleasure her sister seems to derive from utterly meaningless victories—although perhaps Regina shouldn't be so surprised.

She knows a thing or two about meaningless victories.)

 

* * *

 

And so it goes for another three hours.

It's enough to drive Regina around the bend. The moment the proceedings close for the day, she immediately stands and marches straight out, pausing only to give a death glare that Medusa herself would be proud of to some poor soul who gets in her way. She immediately heads to her car, and drives home with her jaw aching from being clamped down for so long—though on the way, she picks up Roland from daycare and Henry from school.

“Hey Mom,” Henry says brightly upon closing the door. Then he catches a glimpse of her expression. “Mom?”

“Hm?” She glances at him in the rear-view mirror—but almost has to flinch away at the thinness of his lips, the doubt clouding his eyes which are usually beacons of clarity. “I'm sorry, honey, I—I was just thinking.”

“You have your scary face on,” he replies warily, his brow furrowed. “Was it the trial again?”

Her son. Her _son_ , her shrewd, clever little prince. “It's been a long day.”

His expression softens, and Regina's chest loosens. “Don't worry, Mom. You'll win soon.”

 

* * *

 

(But then what?)

 

* * *

 

Despite Henry's encouragement—which she appreciates, she really, truly does—she spends the rest of the drive home in complete silence, unable to break the spiral of _hate-worry-guilt-hate_ that's overtaken her mind ever since—well. She'd rather not complete _that_ sentence. In fact, it makes her realise just how far she's sunk into herself, into that nameless pit deep within that she keeps promising herself—and, by extension, her family—that she'll avoid. But she's used to this sort of failure by now.

Every part of her, every muscle and every instinct, wants to just ride this out, immerse herself in the joy and light and _love_ of her children. But instead, upon arriving home, she gives Henry and Roland a hug, heads into her and Emma's bedroom, carefully pulls the double curtains closed, and shuts the door.

She can't put this on them. She _can't_. She owes them that much.

As a result, when Emma gets home half an hour later, she's still sitting dead still in her darkened room, slowly letting the darkness drift away, washing over her in ever-weakening waves. Not for the first time, she's thankful, so thankful that she doesn't have her magic here.

She hears the thud of Emma's boots abruptly cease right outside the room, a sigh and a light double-tap on the door. “Regina—”

“Not now, Emma,” she interjects, gentle and soft yet _dangerous_ , reflecting a glimmer of her actual emotions which are anything but gentle and soft. Emma has given her much—more than she'd ever believed possible, frankly—but this is hers to deal with and hers alone. “Give me one hour.”

A pause, and Regina can just imagine Emma leaning her forehead on the door, exasperated and helpless. “One hour.”

 

* * *

 

An hour passes, but it isn't Emma who opens the door. It's her younger son.

“Mommy, come play with me,” Roland says—says, not asks, because Regina's lessons about phrasing questions as actual questions hasn't quite stuck yet. Right now, though, she doesn't care.

She smiles—beams, almost—down at him, ruffles his hair. “Of course, sweetheart.”

 

* * *

 

Dinner is a somewhat tense, quiet affair salvaged mainly by a mercifully pointless debate about comic book superheroes. Even so, there are knots in Emma's shoulders and her arms are stiff in that way that means she's upset. Or angry.

It's probably the latter, to be honest—Emma, like herself, has always found more ease in righteous fury than in sadness.

It's no surprise, then when Emma finally corners her in their room. She's in the middle of replying to an essay-length email from Maleficent, the dragon-slash-Mayor having finally learned how to use a computer, and pestering Regina for Mayoral advice as a result. She sighs when Emma drops herself down unceremoniously on the bed behind her, and she closes the screen.

“Emma, if this is about—”

“It isn't. I mean,” Emma adds, wetting her lips a little, her lips still thinned. “It isn't _just_ about this afternoon.”

“But it is mostly about that.”

“Yeah. You know it freaks Henry out when you're like that, right? And me a little as well.”

And Regina knows _,_ of course, and she hates herself more than a little for it, but—“We're in New York, dear. I'm not the Queen here.”

“Nah, just a gay mother with two kids,” Emma says with a hint of a wry smile, but the lines around her eyes remain fixed and well-defined. “But you don't need magic to hurt people.”

“I'm _not—_ ”

“No. But you want to.” Emma reaches over, tugs her around in the chair so they're properly facing each other. “Part of you wishes you could.”

Yes. _Yes_ , it does. Oh, how it wishes, how it _burns—_ and how the rest of her knows that she _can't_. “This is who I am, Emma,” she says, low and fierce, “I may not— _she_ may not be me any more, but she's in me. She isn't going away.” And her breath hitches, her throat constricts, because _she_ might not go away, but—

But Emma, Emma who had protected her because her son had requested it, Emma who had believed her when no one else would, simply _understands_. “I know. Just let us in too, yeah? Can you do that for us?”

She closes her eyes and doesn't answer.

 

* * *

 

(She wants to, of course. She so dearly wants to. But _want_ isn't enough.)

 

* * *

 

There is one more thing she has to do this evening. One thing that she absolutely _must_ do.

She pauses for a fraction of a second before opening the door—but only for a fraction of a second. “Henry, do you have a moment?”

“Uh, sure.” He puts down his pen and closes his notebook—history, Regina notes. Not Henry's favourite subject yet, but one that Regina is very keen on ensuring that Henry excels in, as she finds the history of this world infinitely richer than that of her own. “What's up?”

She sits down next to him, spends a moment taking in his expression, prepares herself.

“I'd—about this afternoon,” she starts slowly. “I know it scares you when I behave like that. I know it reminds you of—those times. And I'm sorry—”

“Mom.” He leans over, places a hand on her forearm. “It's okay. I wasn't scared.”

She starts a little in surprise. “You—you weren't?”

“Nah. I know you'd never hurt me or Roland or Mom any more,” he says, and the relief Regina feels clashes with the shame at _any more_. “But you're really freaky when you're like that, and I guess I was kinda worried.”

It's better than outright fear, but not much. Not enough. She starts brushing loose brown hair delicately away from his eyes, so bright like his mother's. “Worried? Why?”

He shrugs. “I just wish you didn't hate Zelena so much.”

She sighs, but continues drawing lines down his temple. “Henry—”

“I know why you're still angry. I'm mad at her too. But once she's in jail, can't you just… let it go?”

“I—I don't know, Henry. I don't think I can. What she did to Robin—to _me_ —isn't something I think anyone can forgive.”

“But that's what everyone said about you once,” Henry points out, and that isn't an argument Regina has any reasonable response to, “and Mom and I and my grandparents all love you anyway.”

Which is, frankly, still somewhat incomprehensible to her—particularly when it comes to Snow and Charming—but she can't argue with _that_ either. “Henry, even if I wanted to, I'm not sure _she_ wants to be forgiven. It isn't something that anyone else can do for you.”

Because that's the difference, isn't it? Regina, regardless of all the terrible crimes she'd committed in the past, had at least _wanted_ redemption. She'd given up her own son along the way to getting it.

(She tries not to think about the fact that Zelena doesn't have anything to give up in the first place.)

And Henry knows, of course. Henry knows this better than anyone. “Sure. But it isn't about her, it's about you. I don't want you to hurt any more, Mom,” he mumbles shyly.

Regina just rests her forehead against his and wonders how she could possibly have been so lucky.

 

* * *

 

The closing arguments happen shortly afterwards. The DA is methodical, calm and precise, going through the reams of evidence in exactly the way Regina and Emma had instructed. The defense attorney is not.

“And here we see this _woman_ ,” he proclaims with a absurd flourish, gesturing at Regina in a way that once upon a time would surely have seen him lose an arm, “casting the most baseless and vindictive aspersions upon my client, a pregnant woman with _nothing_ , out of anger and spite. I submit that...”

But Regina is beyond caring, and beyond listening. After six months of pain and grief and rage, of _too late_ and _blood_ and trying to hide silent tears from her family, she's had enough of Zelena's tricks and of this _trial_. All she wants now is for this to _end._

 

* * *

 

(Even though the prospect, frankly, terrifies her.)

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later, two weeks of jury deliberations, two weeks of waiting and hoping and _dreading,_ two weeks of silent nights with Emma's hand wrapped up in hers beneath the blanket, squeezing as if she could just crush her fears and worries inside their shared grips, it's time.

“You ready?” Emma asks, her face impassive.

She isn't. She really, really isn't.

“Yes.”

 

* * *

 

The courtroom is packed, but it's so quiet that Regina can hear the muffled coughs of the jurors, the rub of their clothes as they enter and take their seats. There's a small discussion of protocol, the courtroom equivalent of small talk, and then—

“Miss Mills,” the judge says to Zelena, “Could you please stand and face the jury?”

She does so, her expression as impassive as ever—but when Regina looks closer, she notices that some of that wild, manic flame usually lighting her sister's eyes has gone. It's probably related to the now-considerable swell of her stomach, she figures.

The lead juror stands, pulls out a piece of paper from an envelope.

“Is everyone ready? Very well. Mr Robinson, if you please.”

The man unfolds the paper, begins to read in a clear, emotionless, almost robotic voice: “This is the verdict of the Supreme Court of the State of New York, in the matter of the State of New York against Zelena Mills.”

Regina takes a breath, holds it, feels Emma's hand on her thigh—

“We, the jury, in the aforementioned action, find the defendant Zelena Mills guilty of the crime of murder of Robin Locksley...”

Guilty.

_Guilty._

A squeeze, a touch of her shoulder as Emma leans into her. She looks over to the dock, where her sister is still standing, looking—

Is she _relieved_?

Regina doesn't know. Regina doesn't _care—_ because it's irrelevant, isn't it? It's over. It's _over_ , and after six months she has her justice at last.

 

* * *

 

(So why doesn't she care?)

 


	5. in green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that the pace of updates is slowing. Unfortunately, this is likely to continue, as this story gets progressively more challenging to write and my time gets more and more squeezed out by real life (and plus, there are dream people to deal with as well). Oh, and this is pretty obviously going to blow out beyond seven chapters now, perhaps significantly so.
> 
> Pregnancy subplot appears in a pretty big way here (and will continue to do so). Avoid if that's not your thing.

**eleven.**

 

They pick Henry up from school an hour later.

His eyes dart cautiously between them, his backpack half-hanging off his shoulder—but Emma gives him a tiny nod, and he beams.

 

* * *

 

That evening, after they've arrived home from dinner at a local Italian restaurant and the children have been put to bed (though with reluctance on Henry's behalf), Emma is half-sprawled on the rug, a glass of cider in her hand. Her eyes are glazed and unfocussed, and Regina just _knows_ that there's something on her mind.

“I keep waiting, you know,” she says eventually, once Regina makes it obvious through her diligent silence that she knows that Emma isn't actually watching the TV. “Now that the trial is over.”

“For?”

“Something. _Anything._ Maybe Maleficent will go crazy on us. Maybe vampires will start appearing in Storybrooke. Maybe—”

“Emma.” Regina slides over, strokes a line down Emma's temple, smiles a little when Emma rests her head ever-so-lightly on her trembling hand. “I'm sure your parents and Belle can handle things for a few more months.”

“And if it's not?” Emma's eyes flick upwards to hers, bright, bright, _bright—“_ If—if it's longer?”

Oh, Emma. Sweet, selfless, _good_ Emma, for whom happiness is a gift to be bestowed, but has no idea how to take it for herself. Never, ever for herself.

“Then it's longer.”

 

* * *

 

(It only strikes her much later that Emma wasn't actually worrying about having to save Storybrooke.)

 

* * *

 

It's all Snow's idea.

At least, that's what Regina tells herself—but in truth, she'd seen this coming a thousand miles off, and even hinted to Emma that this might be a possibility. It comes from a mixture of Snow White just being Snow White, a genuine desire to see them all again, the never-ending quest to get her daughter to forgive her misdeeds, and it is very, very predictable.

So after babbling for a good five minutes about her vision for this proposed Thanksgiving dinner, Regina has all but tuned her out when she says—“But, of course, if you guys have your own plans—”

“No. I mean,” Regina adds hastily. “We don't.” It isn't as if she hasn't been thinking about it—she has, ever since the middle of November.

(That doesn't mean she knows what she thinks _of_ it yet, though.)

“David and I would love for you to come,” Snow says, and Regina wonders if she'd just imagined the emphasis on _you_. “You, Emma, and the children.”

Regina has no idea how it's become so easy for her to accept that, how she's fallen so naturally into this family she'd spent so long trying to destroy. But she doesn't dare question it.

(It'd be like second-guessing her next breath.)

“We'll be there.”

 

* * *

 

If Regina had thought herself uncomfortable with flying, then it is absolutely nothing compared to Roland.

They're split three-and-one across the aisle, with Henry taking the single aisle seat by his own declaration. He'd been quite insistent on this, and Regina had suspected it was the nascent teenager in him coming out—but she hadn't asked or complained. She has more important things to worry about, like the squalling preschooler burrowing into her.

“Sweetheart, it's okay,” she says as reassuringly as she can, gently and rhythmically running a hand through Roland's hair. It doesn't work, if his frightened whimpers are any indication. It doesn't help that they seemed to have encountered turbulence—light turbulence, so much so that Regina isn't bothered by it, but Roland is frightened out of his mind. It had started from the moment the plane had lifted off, and—to the consternation of those around them—hasn't stopped since. She'd even tried swapping seats with him so he didn't have to look at the window, in hope that the small distance would let him briefly forget that they're forty thousand feet off the ground.

But no. He's a smart boy by nature and nurture—particularly nurture—and he remains very much aware of where he is, distractions be damned. Even Emma, who usually has a gifted ease with Roland that even Regina can't quite match—which is fine, it's absolutely _fine—_ can't seem to break through to him.

The plane jerks again with a shudder, inducing a deeply unpleasant plunging sensation in Regina's stomach—which she guess Roland feels too, because he immediately cries out for his father.

Regina rests her head back on the seat, momentarily defeated. She sighs and looks up at Emma in the aisle seat—but to her surprise, Emma is stiff, her body half-twisted towards them like she's caught between wanting to actively help and just letting Regina do her own thing. “I think he could use some food, dear.”

Emma nods sharply, mind clearly elsewhere. “Food. Right.”

 

* * *

 

Upon landing, Emma's grip is tight around the handlebar of the luggage trolley and her lips are fixed, pressed together in a pensive, angled slant. The children—well, mainly Henry, with Roland hanging off his older brother's every word—are a few yards away, waiting for the suitcases to be delivered on the conveyor belt, so Regina sidles up to Emma, places a hand above her elbow.

“Wha—oh. Hi,” Emma says, with only a hint of falsity.

“You okay?”

“Sure,” she says, constructing a bright smile. “Why wouldn't I be?”

Regina wonders if she should compile a list.

 

* * *

 

On the way to Storybrooke, at a rest area diner: “You did good with him there. On the plane.”

Regina raises an eyebrow. “That was hardly what I'd call _good_.”

“Better than I did.” A scowl, and Regina is briefly worried, because dealing with Emma Swan's motherhood insecurities is really not on her to-do list today—“Ugh, what a dick.”

Regina blinks. “Pardon?”

Emma glances over, brow furrowed. “Don't tell me—wait. You didn't notice.”

“Notice _what?_ ”

“The guy sitting in the row in front of us, on Henry's side. He was staring at us literally the whole time.”

“And so?” Regina knows who she's referring to, a middle-aged suit whose cufflinks probably cost as much as Henry's school fees. He'd glared at her once as she'd taken her initial seat next to Emma. She'd simply scowled back and thought nothing more of it.

(She's used to that sort of thing, after all. Fear and prejudice don't really look that different once you get down to it.)

But Emma remains silent, her hand enclosed too firmly around her cup of coffee, and Regina has to sigh.

“Emma.”

“I know, I know,” Emma groans. “It's dumb.”

“It's a little dumb,” Regina agrees with a wry smile, because _honestly_ , it's been hours—“But where it comes from? That's not dumb at all.”

“I don't even care about _that_ ,” Emma replies, short and vehement. Regina almost objects because _that_ is most definitely something that Emma _should_ care about, but the objection dies in her throat when Emma continues with, “It's our sonsI worry about, especially Roland. He shouldn't have to deal with that sort of shit.”

_Oh._

“He didn't notice.”

“'Cos he too busy being frightened to death for that.”

“And then he calmed down,” Regina reasons, choosing her words with exactness. It's true _,_ after all; right now, Roland is far too busy chasing Henry around the gas station to worry about the flight. “We did the best we could.”

It's the wrong thing to say. It has to be, because Emma's expression clouds even further. “Emma—”

“No, I—I know. It isn't actually about that guy.”

Regina remains silent. Emma goes on.

“It's just—when he asked for Robin. He's going to wonder, you know?” Emma says, coloured by what Regina realises with a nasty pang is decades upon decades of first-hand experience. “There's always going to be a little part of him waiting for Robin and Marian to come home.”

 _Ah._ So this isn't about Roland or some homophobic asshole at all; this is about Emma.

Perhaps Regina _is_ going to have to deal with Emma's various insecurities today—or maybe this is just plain old guilt. She honesty can't tell the difference, and she wonders just how much the trial had taken out of Emma, how much Zelena's prodding and pushing had got to her, dredged up worries and fears that they'd tried and failed to bury.

Regina decides to try again. “There is no curse to break here, Emma. No blondes with their obscene yellow cars to drag home,” she adds—and it works, because Emma rolls her eyes, bumps her with an elbow.

She goes on. “No matter what he thinks, we're his parents. We'll still love him _._ ” The second is said with far more conviction than the first, because after that time—after _Henry_ , Regina knows there are no guarantees. “We won't make the same mistakes again.”

And Emma knows, of course. “A second chance?”

Regina looks up, sees the two boys chasing each other, Roland giggling as Henry prances around with mock-menacing hops, like he's impersonating a large monster of some kind.

_A second chance?_

No. _No,_ because that isn't fair to Henry, nor to Roland, and especially not to Emma.

 

* * *

 

(But is it fair to herself?)

 

* * *

 

Upon arrival, Snow immediately ropes Regina into cooking. Mercifully, Regina had convinced her to have the dinner take place at Regina's much larger mansion rather than the painfully cramped loft—or, more accurately, she'd made it completely non-negotiable. Although it had taken quite some effort.

“Oh come on, Regina, we've all had dinner here before,” Snow had groaned. Regina had just fallen completely silent and waited, a tactic which she'd often used to great effect on Emma. Apparently some things run in the family, because after ten increasingly awkward seconds, Snow had simply sighed.

“Fine. Your mansion, then.”

It means that she at least has access to a proper kitchen with proper utensils, and she has enough space to put some physical distance between her and Snow, who had been as insistent on helping as she had been on the mansion.

“It's either me or Emma,” Snow had explained, and— _fine_ , that sort of reasoning is impossible to counter. Regina trusts Emma in the kitchen about as much as she trusts their downstairs neighbours.

(They don't even think about asking David.)

Even so, Snow _still_ manages to worm her way next to Regina just as she's halfway through preparing the turkey. Emma is busy yelling curses at the TV in the living room as both Henry and Roland give her a comprehensive thrashing in whatever video game they're playing now, so there'll be no escape for Regina coming from them.

“So the trial's over, huh?”

Regina huffs in annoyance, counts to ten. “Yes.”

“Both of you must be so relieved.”

“Yes.”

“I guess it must have taken so much out of you.”

“Yes.”

There's a small exhalation from Snow, almost inaudible—Regina is not a gambler, but she'd bet good money that Snow is rolling her eyes right now. “Alright, if you don't want to talk—”

“It's been exhausting more than anything,” Regina suddenly blurts out, then blinks and rapidly closes her mouth again, because no, she _doesn't_ want to talk. At all. Certainly not to _Snow White_ , her former archnemesis and—

“That makes sense. Zelena put you guys through hell.”

“She did.” Regina puts down the carving knife and leans both hands onto the table, her fingers curving around the edge. So apparently she _is_ doing this. “I thought that once the trial finished, I would be happy. Or, at least, satisfied.”

“Mm, you know even better than I do that revenge doesn't—”

“This wasn't supposed to be revenge,” Regina interjects sharply, her voice suddenly harsh and thick. “This was meant to be _justice_. For Robin.”

Snow is silent for a second, eyeing her with a considered, pensive gaze, before placing a hand over Regina's left. She accepts the gesture, despite the turkey gunk and residue on her skin. “You know, I thought the same thing.”

“Thought what?”

“That having justice—against you—would be enough, and it would make me happy.” The words—the _words_ are something Regina doesn't dare contemplate, but Snow's voice is still soft and calm, made for sharing a sentiment with a dear relative rather than a mortal enemy.

(Is that really what Regina is now?)

Snow continues. “But then I thought more about it after David and I spared you, and it just felt... hollow, I suppose.”

“What do you mean?” Regina asks thinly, as if she doesn't understand—but a voice in her head is whispering otherwise.

“Maybe—maybe killing you would have been just,” Snow says, her breath hitching on _that_ word, and Regina can't even argue because _yes,_ it would have been _absolutely just—_ “But it wouldn't have brought anyone back. It wouldn't have undone any of the damage. All it would have done is taken another life.”

Regina's eyes are stinging, and she can feel moisture running freely down her cheeks. “So what's the point of it?”

Snow squeezes Regina's hand, reminding her so very, very much of the woman's daughter.

“Closure, I suppose. A chance to move on with our lives and build something better. I guess that deep down I still felt my best chance of that was with you still in my life.” Snow falls silent, averts her eyes—but there's a smile on her face, small and tranquil. “Good thing I was right.”

Regina can barely see for tears, but regardless she turns her left hand over so she can entwine their fingers. “A very good thing.”

In the next room, Emma whoops with victorious joy as her children shout their outraged protests, laughing as they do.

 

* * *

 

**twelve.**

 

The dinner, despite Regina's various fears and bunkered expectations, is—well. It's bright lights and succulent food, good wine and warm laughter from so many people she thought would never forgive her and it's more than she'd ever hoped for. At one point Emma's parents, who had been watching her every interaction with their daughter with unrestrained affection in her eyes, had even proposed a toast.

“To our family,” David had declared.

Regina had hesitated for a moment—but only a moment. “Our family.”

All in all, it's more than she'd ever believed possible, and she—

 _She_ —

“You okay?” Emma asks quietly, much later that night. Regina opens her eyes, which had been screwed tightly shut.

“What?”

“You look tense. If you need some space—”

“It's fine.” And it _is,_ so she turns over so she can face Emma in her bed ( _her_ bed, the one she'd slept in for decades). “Tonight was good.”

Emma brushes hair away from her face, kisses her softly. “It was wonderful. Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

(Sometimes she has to remind herself that she's not the only one who'd never thought she'd have anything like this.)

 

* * *

 

Another harrowing—for Roland, anyway—flight later, they're back in New York, just in time for the sentencing. The judge reads out his decision in dull, measured tones as he describes _life sentence_ and _thirty years without parole_ and _justice_.

(Regina no longer knows what that word means.)

It's all very quick and efficient, especially after the tedious and exhausting mess of the last six months, and Regina cannot wait for this all to be _done—_

“Mrs Mills,” the judge says, looking up from his notes at her convicted sister still sitting, totally impassive, in the dock. “If there is anything you'd like to say...”

Zelena raises her chin high. “I do.”

Regina stills immediately. Zelena hadn't said anything in the trial, not a single word. What could she possibly have to say now that could matter? What could she _take?_

Zelena stands and, as Regina had expected, turns to face her. Every muscle in her body has tightened and she's shaking fr om the sheer _effort_ of controlling the emotions raging, burning within her—but she does not break eye contact. Not for a single second.

Her sister smiles, wide and twisted and— _empty?_

“Congratulations, sis,” Zelena says, her voice dripping with caustic bitterness beyond compare. “You won.”

Regina simply keeps her gaze level, and doesn't reply. She doesn't need to, after all.

 

* * *

 

Emma insists on a celebratory wine that evening—or, rather, she pulls out a bottle and two glasses and plants them without preamble on the table in front of Regina, who immediately raises an eyebrow.

“I thought you might want to—stop _doing_ that,” Emma adds suddenly, flushing slightly and looking decidedly flustered as she often does when Regina quirks a lip like so.

“Doing what, darling?” she purrs innocently, as if she hasn't done this about fifty times before.

“ _That._ Mocking me with your face.”

“Eloquent, dear.” But she pours herself a glass anyway.

 

* * *

 

Predictably, they both wind up laid out across the couch by midnight. Equally predictably, they end up not talking, instead going for sighing little kisses and roaming touches. Three of the buttons on Regina's blouse have already come undone and she has a hand underneath Emma's shirt when an insistent buzzing interrupts them.

“Emma.”

“Ignore that,” Emma murmurs against her jaw. Regina would very much like to, and instead focus on the weight of Emma's body pressed against hers, on the softness of Emma's lips trailing fire across her skin, on the raw _feeling_ of Emma's hand starting to massage her breast— _fuck—_

“ _Emma_ ,” she says again, her voice cracking under the strain. “Your phone.”

There's an exasperated groan, squeezed between hungry arousal and sensible duty, but Emma sits up anyway and takes the call.

“Hello? Yeah, that's me,” Emma says, doing her best to sound unaffected, before pausing for a moment, frowning slightly. “Regina's right here and we're fine, thanks—uh, sorry for asking, but who are you and what is this about?”

Regina sits up as Emma listens silently to whatever the voice on the end—a voice Emma doesn't seem to recognise—explains what exactly had been so important that it had to interrupt _this_. But it doesn't matter; once this call ends and Emma turns off her phone _properly_ , Regina will take her by the hand, lead her to their bedroom and—

“ _What?!_ ”

Regina stares at Emma, completely thrown. Emma's face has blanched and her eyes are round with undisguised shock, and for a single horrifying moment, Regina gets a glimpse back into a seven-month-old abyss again.

“But she isn't due for—oh. No, no, it's fine,” Emma continues, her expression still stunned but her shoulders relaxing a little, and Regina no longer feels like she's about to choke. Even so, she can't help but take Emma's free hand in her own, and she flinches when Emma immediately holds on far too hard. “It's not a surprise—well, it is a bit, but obviously we were expecting this at some stage. Can I, uh, ask you why you're telling us this?”

Another fifteen seconds of calm explanation, as Emma's lips thin even further, her eyes cloud over, and her grip becomes so tight that it _hurts—_

“Oh. Is there anything—okay. Talk to you soon, doctor.”

She hangs up, lowers the phone, and says nothing. Regina reaches up—but Emma is hard, almost like stone, and remains so even at her touch.

“Emma...”

“That was Elmhurst Hospital,” Emma says in a voice so unnaturally flat, so completely devoid of emotion that it honestly chills Regina to the bone. “Zelena just went into labour.”

 

* * *

 

It's a girl, and it's a month early.

That's the only thing they find out that night during the series of calls back-and-forth between Emma and the hospital, the prison and whoever of Emma's contacts they feel might possibly have even mere scraps of information. But there's nothing beyond that one fact; no name, no news about the baby's well-being, nothing about the baby's _future_.

After Emma sets down the phone for the last time, she declares, “This doesn't change anything.”

Regina, who still sitting on the couch with her back ramrod straight and her knees pressed tightly together, simply laughs, twisted and broken. “You can't possibly be so naive.”

Emma grinds her teeth, her eyes alight with fierce determination, like she's going make her words truth by sheer force of will. “She's still locked up for the rest of her life. Whether she's got a baby or not doesn't change that—”

“But it does,” Regina interjects, her voice quivering barely above a whisper. “It's a reminder.”

“You've known this was coming for ages. We've _talked_ about this.”

“Talking about some hypothetical event well into the future is very different from dealing with the actual reality of it, Emma.”

Emma sighs, runs a hand through still somewhat-tousled blonde hair, and Regina wonders how the liquid heat of just a few hours ago had crystallised into something so cold, brittle and hard between them. “Okay. But we can't change anything about the actual reality right now, so can—can we just go to bed?”

Regina looks at the pleading face, the worried slant of the mouth—and she wants to move, but she doesn't. She's torn, torn between going and staying, torn into a hundred pieces—

“Regina—”

“You go ahead,” she says quietly, averting her eyes. “I'll be there in a moment.”

 

* * *

 

She doesn't sleep well.

In fact, she doesn't sleep at _all;_ if she does, she just _knows_ that the old nightmare will come back, the endless loop of gunshots and screams as Zelena—no, as a child, as a faceless, nameless _baby—_ rips away her happiness, as Emma, then Snow, then Roland, then Henry fall lifeless to the ground—

“Can I tell you something?” Emma asks, breaking through the dreadful visions.

Regina opens her eyes, sees brilliant, fearful green staring back at her. She nods silently, unable to trust her voice with anything even remotely important.

Emma swallows, wets her lips. The city light diffusing through the curtains has fallen across her face, illuminating it a pale, soft blue as Regina waits and waits—

“I, um, I love you.”

Regina stops.

“I do actually love you,” Emma continues, her voice gathering pace, like a boulder rolling inexorably down, down—“Genuinely.”

Regina looks, _stares_ , and—oh, Emma is _terrified._

“You know that, right? Regina?”

And Regina does, of course she does—she sees it in gestures, in smiles, in a thousand irrelevant actions which mean the whole universe to her, in two children and a New York apartment and a _life_ _—_

But not in words. Never in words.

“Please—please tell me you know.”

“Yes. _Yes._ ”

“So—”

“But now?” Regina asks, every syllable on the verge of shattering and dissolving into the thick, whispering air, never to be found again. “What's so important about saying it now?”

Emma pauses, purses her lips, _understands_. “I think—” She hesitates, visibly searching for the right words. “That, um, it's just the right time. Now.”

( _I think that if I don't, I won't get another chance._ )

Underneath the blanket, Regina winds her fingers through her best friend's, her _lover's_ , and holds on for dear life.

 

* * *

 

Emma calls her mother the next day, well before breakfast. When Emma suddenly shoots bolt upright, her mouth hanging slightly open, Regina stills with her coffee still halfway to her lips.

“No, Mary Margaret, I'm not gonna make her—yeah, yeah I get it. Look, I _know_ it has to be us, I just wish—” A sigh, and Emma deflates. “I know. Okay, I'll talk to her. Yep. Love you too, mom. Bye.”

Regina puts down the mug. Emma stands with her back turned for a moment, turning her phone over in her fingers again and again.

“So...” Regina begins, breaking the sudden silence.

Emma's knuckles whiten around her phone—then she turns around, with a smile so false that Regina's chest seizes up for a moment.

“Why don't you wake up the kids? I'll make breakfast today.”

“ _Emma—_ ”

“Later, Regina.” A brief pause. “I'll tell you once they're gone.”

 

* * *

 

When Emma does, Regina understands why.

 

* * *

 

She tries calling Snow and all but chews her ear off, but the woman is fully expecting her outburst and simply rides it out with utterly infuriating patience, eventually reminding her—gently, and (not that Regina will ever admit it out loud) kindly, but a reminder nonetheless—that her logic is irrefutable.

So. Here she is now, Emma beside her, parked outside a hospital. Before they even walk away from the car, Emma briefly tugs her back, biting her lip.

“If you aren't comfortable with this...”

She's infinitely grateful for the offer, but she knows that this isn't a gift—one far more meaningful than those three stupid words—that she has any right to accept. Not right now. “You heard your mother. I have to do this.”

Emma sighs, but lets go.

 

* * *

 

Elmhurst Hospital Center is enormous, easily the largest hospital Regina has ever seen. From outside, it's a thoroughly imposing red brick edifice, sunlight glinting off the evenly spaced windows. The interior isn't quite so massive nor so intimidating, the cavernous spaces brightly lit by rows of halogen lights, the plush seating and warm colour scheme clearly designed to ease the many jangled and frayed nerves held within, but Regina still has to steady her breathing before walking up the receptionist.

“Good morning. What can I do for you?”

“We're here to see Zelena Mills and her child,” she says, doing her best to hide the hitch in her voice, trying her utmost not to think about the fact that said child is not purely _Zelena's_.

“Just a moment, please.” The receptionist clicks through a series of windows on her computer, opens a file—and Regina knows when the correct one has been found, because her eyes widen visibly. “You're aware that—”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Erm, can I get your names?”

“Regina Mills and Emma Swan.” She pauses, breathes in, breathes out, despises her next two words with every fibre of her being. “We're family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you thought. As you can tell, this was a challenge to get right (even assuming that I have).


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